


Ouroboros

by ANEMONEXVI



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Background Relationships, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-06-10 18:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15297702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANEMONEXVI/pseuds/ANEMONEXVI
Summary: “I don’t have any desire to be part of a group of rebels who aid townspeople and give warmongering nations the metaphorical finger,” Neil stoked his words with distain, hoping to discourage the group into the short version of the conversation he knew they were trying to have....With no time to grieve the violent death of his mother, Neil finds himself alone in an unforgiving land with a heavy target on his back. In his aimlessness he encounters a group of roguish crusaders, The Foxes. A team of misfits who attempt to work together to bring peace to nations or peoples in crisis. And they want to recruit Neil for his rumored illusory magic.But Neil's magical lineage doesn't speak of subtlety and he can't afford to catch any unwanted attention.A roughshod fantasy/magic/government intrigue/familial drama/torture/mental and physical healing/aliens/ saga





	1. And There's a Line on My Palm, but There's a Light in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> this starts off pretty slow bc i really wanted to write a lot about Neil's loneliness  
> I will probably edit this section later but just some notes:
> 
> i got inspired to write something involving mythical beasts from a dragon!neil fic that i have to go hunt down and find.... but this is going to be very different.  
> **EDIT: thank you to [GreenEggsnSam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenEggsnSam/pseuds/GreenEggsnSam) for finding it, this fic is [Thicker than Dragon's Blood by KXDragon27](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9100615/chapters/20686948), check it out if ur interesed  
> **
> 
> I have not written something with this much world building and i will defiantly forget 85% of it and i don't actually know anything about crystals or gems or herbs or actual magic or witchcraft so please don't take anything as factual this is purely a story written for my own enjoyment.
> 
> Same warnings apply as to the original series.
> 
> title is from the ["If I'm" by Sea Oleana ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YQfbpZweroc)
> 
> [here is a playlist i listened to while writing this](https://open.spotify.com/user/1248935697/playlist/7n6U1nle3nXrn3r07DlSJV)
> 
>  
> 
> I hope u like it!

 

 

 

 

“Neil,” he whispered.“Neil Josten. Neil Abram Josten.”

A tensely coiled hand shucked through blackened curls, he closed his eyes, held the white talisman in his palm, crushed a blueberry into the rune carved onto the stone with his thumb, and continued his fervent mantra, “Neil, Neil Josten, Neil Abram Josten, Neil…”

...

Deliah’s abdomen was stained with bruising. She slid her fingertips beneath her shirt to find the skin heated and firm to the touch. She thrust back a rush of despair and focused on her son. “Alex,” she breathed, disguising the tight thread of pain in her voice and struggling into the saddle of her dark bay mount. “Alex, hurry! We must cross the border before dawn.”

They didn’t make it to the border.

They made it to the coast, the crashing waves meeting the cliffs with a steady swelling tempo.

They made it to the coast, where blankets of wildflowers dozed in wait for the sun, donning cloaks of morning dew.

The made it to the cusp of the sea, salty air breathed in by their lungs, one steady, the other fleeting.

Her mount faltered, sensing the stillness upon his back, heavy hooves quieted. 

“Mom?” 

“Abram,” She called, her voice betraying gentleness, “Come here.” 

He was there quick as the life leaving her body, eyes full of disbelief. “Mom?” He questioned again and matched her gentleness, reverent of it’s rarity. She placed her hands on his shoulder and slumped out of her saddle and into his surprised arms. She felt the shudder run through his body at the sound of her dried blood fracturing her release from the leather. They slipped to the ground, his arms still holding her breaking body. Moonlight filtered in wisps, the clouds were dark grey and disguising. She held tighter to his shoulder and spoke, “Don’t look back.” 

Her breath, hot, plump, and humid, puffed against his ear. Curls tickled at his earlobe, “Don’t slow down.”

Thin boned and dirt laden fingers traced the shell of his ear capturing stray curls, “Don’t trust anyone.”

A calloused palm gripped his jaw; “Be anyone but yourself.”

The grip on his jaw tightened, “…and never be anyone for too long.”

He stared at her, his arms trembling to hold together the battlefield of her body, tears pinched at the corners of his eyes. The anguished cry that surged, welling up and out of his throat was strangled and held back, teeth creaking against each other, as he smothered his grief. His body felt too cold and hard but frail, like an ancient stone sculpture finally ready to crumble away into collapsed ruins. 

 

He carried her body into a collapsing cabin by the sea’s edge. It was more of a shack, perhaps an abandoned hunter's shelter. Just the one doorframe and two windows with the glass jagged and mostly missing. He slowly laid her body down in the center of the floor and pulled out his drawstring bag, dusting herbs across her blood-sodden and torn cloak.

Geranium to banish negativity and aid the spirit.

Hyssop to anoint, purify, and consecrate.

Heather to protect.

He piled kindling scavenged from nearby and scraps of rotting wood from the house and laid them on top of her. Then the boy struck dagger across flint and the flames took.

The moon was seated on the western edge of the horizon as he pulled her cooling bones from the red-winking coals. Secure in his satchel, he carried them down a break in the cliffs and onto the sandy shore where he dug until his fingers bled, and then a bit deeper. Placing the bones at the bottom of the pit, he gently covered them, masking any evidence of a burial. 

...

Neil Josten sold a bay gelding to a livestock merchant in the port city, Aglisiide. He kept the chestnut gelding with the faster gait and no memories of rinsing his mother’s blood from it’s flank. 

The western-most city was mostly full of traders of furs and meats. Wooden stalls or wagons held piles of common beast furs such as the small black mountain bears that lived to the north, golden pelts of fern rabbits that burrowed in the nearby glen, and the sandy-gray of cliff dwelling lynxes. A couple merchants sold gemstones, crystals, and minerals at interspersed stalls with small woven baskets bearing such things as piled shards of rosy-pink rhodonite, aventurine the shade of pickled egg yolks, soft sunflower yellow carnelian, and plentiful sodalite the hue of a starry evening. One seller even had a small baskets for seaweed green emerald shards, poppy red rubies, and a handful of sparkling diamond shards.

There were merchants from the islands to the south who had come by boat to sell their fresh ocean catches of various species of squid, salt-water fish, and suspiciously multi-colored crustaceans of all sizes. Among them was a merchant of sea plants displaying twine-tied bunches of yellow sea kelp, soft sea grasses in shades of light green, and crimson chords or red seaweed.

Local farmers had piles of bagged ground wheat, barley, and corn. There was also a substantial stall filled to edges with baskets and bushels full of herbs. Herbs of all kinds were dried, ground, or fresh cut. Those that could bring luck and positive energy: black pods of tonka bean piled in woven baskets, spear-shaped light-green leafed lemon verbena, and golden-brown clusters of fenugreek in glass jars. Some could attract prosperity: rich green leafy basil, white and orange blossoming honeysuckle, and sun-colored blooming calendula—which also induced dreaming. White powered camphor in delicate cloth bags could cleanse the spirit, aid in healing, and heighten psychic perception. Broad-leafed slippery elm offered protection and the warding off of slander. Most prominent were the herbs attributed to finding or growing love of all kinds: soft towering leaves of marjoram to protect one’s love, delicate blooming white and red myrtle for love and fertility, and long, narrow brown pods of vanilla for compelling and drawing in affection.

The main street market pulsed with the influx of currency and pleased customers clutched their newest purchases in tight hands. 

Heavily trodden and earth-packed streets tangled into a maze conjoining the commercial districts with the residential. Neil led his horse to the wide fountain at the center of the main street and sat along the stone edge while his mount slowly lapped the fresh well water. He slipped his fingers in the hood of his dark forest-green cloak wanting to pull it up and shadow himself from wandering eyes. He rubbed his thumb and fore-finger along the rough fabric instead; daylight hours necessitated an open and relaxed atmosphere. Blend in. Don’t attract attention. 

A street performer in colorful garb twirled in unison with her musical companion as they played a tall stringed instrument. Her multi-colored skirt flounced and waved at passing children. Wisps of bright orange heat tracked her fingertips as she spun, round and round. The apex of her performance brought a ring of colorful sparks popping with light cracks and hissing as they fizzled out. Joyful cheering and clapping followed, along with a few coins tossed into an upended cap.

Salamander magic, he mused. 

Neil pulled out the apple he had purchased from a produce vendor in front of a red-stoned bookstore. It was yellowish green and promised a tart but sweet taste. He savored the juice and flesh of the fruit slowly, licking a stray trail of juice from his wrist. He gave in to the now-nudging muzzle at his shoulder and offered his horse what was left of the core and flesh.

Said horse began to doze off after a half hour and Neil watched as the morning crowd thinned out for a long while only to bring a second rush at noontime. His stomach pinched and whined at him so he delicately ate a corner of the flat bread he had packed away. He cupped his hands in the cerulean water of the fountain and drank. His mount would need all the rest they could manage as Neil had plans to cross the peninsula to it’s eastern edge within a few days, distancing himself from the sea and the memories.

A stroke of steel grey flashed through his vision. The metal staff struck his mother’s belly like a clock, tick, tick, ticking down. His father’s grin stretched unforgivingly wide. Cold jagged rock sliced his cheek where he was held down while a razor sharp knife sliced his shoulder. He stifled the gasp of pain and ground his teeth. His mother’s magic stuttered and cracked around them in time with the strikes. He felt it well up and spill over, blacking out the sun.

The main street of Aglisiide funneled back into his sight. A breathe he hadn't known he had been holding hissed out through his clenched teeth. He slid out his mother’s yellow-silk drawstring bag from the chest pocket of his undershirt. A palm sized glass container slid gently into his slender fingers. He loosened the cork cap slightly and inhaled a full breath of the dried tobacco leaves. His shoulders loosened. He could feel the brush of his mother’s hair across his face as she guided him, always holding him tight.

His mind stumbles to the white stone balcony of his mother’s childhood bedroom in the citadel of Varen Gan. The capital city nestled itself in the heart of Passerine, an enormous desert nation whose few inhabitants were infamous for their specialized illusory magic. Sun warmed white stone buildings tiered off below them in a descending maze of intricately carved homes, business, hotels, and government halls. Children laughed in the street somewhere far below, a camel spat and refused to rise for its passenger, wagons full of fruits and dried gains for livestock passed to and from marketplaces.

Colloquially known as _Warblers_ , people from this nation who had a touch of that ancient magic in their blood lived in peace inside the boundaries of the white sands. Outside those boundaries however, they were contracted or enslaved as assassins and thieves, using their magical endowment from the sands to coat their hands with blood.

Mary sat in a wooden chaise with her dark brown hair in a loose plait along her shoulder, a rolled cigarette in her left hand, and a worn green hide-bound book in her right. Her son lounged atop a delicately woven rug threaded with rich shades of blues, oranges, and yellows. The boy nibbled at the sweet rind of a fruit the same color as his mother’s flowing rose-colored dress and peered out at the city below. Sweat beaded and dripped from his scalp along the skin of his back. The air was dry and comfortingly hot; the sun oozed gently down onto them and he felt his eyes slide closed under it’s warm embrace.

The Citadel sat at the peak of the city of Varen Gan. His mother’s older brother was the crowned king. Mary and her son spent an entire summer in a womb of peace. With autumn came theseasonal shifting winds. They left on a cool evening with the moon’s glow at their backs.

Had they stayed for too long, word would surely find it’s way back to his father. A political conflict between Passerine and his father’s nation was regrettable. A political conflict between his father’s nation and his allies would be irreparable. Mary had argued her point and her oldest brother, the king, begrudgingly saw the wisdom of her self-insured exile.

 

The cigarette had burnt down to the end and bit a red burn into the tip of Neil’s fingers. He shook off the stub and crushed it under the heel of his leather boot. Swiveling in his position on the fountain’s stone edge, he surreptitiously checked his reflection in the crystal water from the fountain. Black curly hair maintained it’s opacity but the brown eyes were beginning to take on hints of a muddled gray. Neil tied the lead from his sleeping horse securely to a brass handle at the base of the stone fountain pool and slipped away to the smaller of the two herb merchant’s stalls. With his horse still in sight, he surveyed the plants before him, quickly recognizing what he would need.

“A fine day for a fine young man. What’ll it be? The foxglove? The cherry blossoms?” The merchant was an middle-age woman with deep brown skin and delicately braided black and grey hair. She wore a soft gray dress compiled of many layers, deep blue fabric furled beneath the translucent grey overlay. She smiled at him kindly but the tick in her lip betrayed her mischievous heart.

Neil scowled in spite of himself at her perceptive eyes and decided he would strengthen the magic his mother had placed over his psyche. Trepidation leaked into his muscles at the thought of performing such a complex cast without her.

He cleared his throat and reconfigured his expression into one of indifference, “Just some blueberries and boneset if you please, ma’am.”

She looked at him a second longer and reached below the counter. Neil tensed instinctually and then quickly recovered as she brought out a green threaded woven basket filled with a handful of plump indigo berries. Berries intended for magics had to be raised with gentle hands, respect, and affection; they were capricious little things. Neil watched as she softly placed eleven berries in a tiny woven basket. The herbalist then slid a few blossoming stems of fine white flowers out of a bundle along the wooden wall of the stall and placed it on the counter next to the berries.

“Ground or whole?” The woman asked indicating the flowers, a dangling amethyst pendant winked with a stray stroke of the sun from around her neck.

“Whole is fine, thank you,” Neil supplied curtly.

She nodded and said, “Two flutes of bronze, if you please.”

Neil placed the small coins into her outstretched palm that was delicately lined with gentle aging. She clapped her fingertips arounds his and suddenly began to recite: 

_“Isle expanse blackens,_

_captive hearts lament._

_Scaled beast exhales,_

_roots writhe and reach.”_

Neil wrenched his hand away, his chest beginning to spasm and heave. The herbalist’s eyes came back into focus and she gave him a terribly gentle smile, “My name is Auelin,” she said apologetically.

To receive the name of one who scried a song for you was a guarantee. Auelin’s song was true and strong. She'd wager her name on it.

Neil grabbed his purchase with tense fingers and rushed to his horse. The beast awoke as Neil hurriedly packed away the berries and blossoms in a saddle bad and clucked at the horse. He mounted and they made swift work of putting the city to their backs.

Panic gave way to anger as they looped over rolling hills along the dirt road. Anger at Auelin for intruding on Neil’s privacy. Anger at himself for allowing his mind to be so easily breached, disgust for being so careless. He knew in hindsight he had been drawn to the herbalist’s stall by more than the ingredients she sold. The magic she weirded was lustrous and breathy. To find such a powerful witch in a small village marketplace was rare. He had been a fool to investigate.

His anger subsided after leagues passed on the road across the peninsula and gave way to anxiety. Grassy hills rose and dipped. Trees sprouted up and creek beds chirped. Small flocks of birds flitted between shrubs and gnarled oaks chasing seeds and each other. He digested Auelin’s song. Terror at the mention of the scaled beast was instinctual. Confusion at the rest was guaranteed. Neil had never been adept nor fond of the intricacies of scried song. Captive? Was she implying Neil would be captured? His heart slammed against his ribs at the possibility and bile rose to his tongue. He spit the taste from his mouth onto the passing road beneath him.

As the sun nestled behind treetops to the west, Neil led his mount a couple leagues away from the road and found a small enclosure of scrubby trees to camp for the night. He untacked his mount and brushed the chestnut’s coat laboriously, working out the days strains of muscle and matting of hair. He picked out stones and packed earth from his hooves with the end of his blade, fastened the long lead to the branch of a nearby oak and left the chestnut to his graze.

Neil ate some cold bites of the flatbread and a strip of dried meat from his satchel, wrapped himself in his thick dark-green cloak, and slipped into a light sleep.

When he woke, the moon was still full in the sky. Resolve settled in his stomach and he began to prepare for the complex cast of masking his psyche in illusion. His mother’s Warbler blood ran thickly through his veins; she had passed on her wellspring of royal magic. But she had not been planning to die so early and hadn’t prepared Neil to perform this himself. He knew it well enough though and he didn’t have any other option. This particular type of cast required focus and could be dangerous if done clumsily, so he decided to use the stones from his mother’s homeland to assist him.

He retrieved a silver silk pouch from his satchel and withdrew seven palm size smooth white stones. They appeared to glow gently as if a small coal were buried beneath the cloudy white stone surface. They twitched in his hands, happy to be handled after so long. The white star-like stones were hewn from the desert of Passerine and gifted to Mary by the Sands. In death she had gifted them to her son. 

He dragged his forefinger in the earth, drew out a seven pointed star, and placed a stone at each point. Then he drew a rune in the center of the star’s belly, a tight hook that curved out and ended in a straight line, a gently curving ray with an empty circle at one end and a point at the other. Neil placed sprigs of the boneset in each of the triangles that made up points of the star. He took two blueberries from the tiny basket from Auelin and placed one inside the small circle at the end of one line in the rune. The other he rolled between his hands and gently pressed until it bled out and coated his palms and fingers in indigo.

Technically the berries were unnecessary and his mother would have bullied him for his reliance on them. But masking one’s psyche was highly advanced magic. The berries would aid Neil in his focus and he was comforted by their quite magic. He was fond of watching as the indigo bled from the berries skin and wound itself within his casting lines. He also enjoyed their tart taste. 

The blue of the berries strengthened his mental intention on using solely the magic he had inherited from his mother. Without them he feared he would see the crimson blood-red of his father’s magic spewing out of him like molten rock.

Neil sat comfortably in front of his rune on the ground, he opened his palms whilehe closed his eyes. He began to recite in the soft whispering tongue of the Warblers.

Neil continued the mantra over and over until he could smell the revealing smoke. He slowly opened his eyes, focusing his intention and the magic coursing and sparking through his veins. The blooms of boneset smoldered and hissed seven streams of smoke, Neil inhaled deeply. The single berry within the rune melted into the circle encasing it and the indigo fluid began to seep down the curved ray connected to the circle, heading towards to pointed end. Neil’s vision surged hazy and deep blue. The boneset collapsed into ash. The flesh of the berry reached and filled the point of the ray in the dirt.

Neil slumped forward and slowly recalibrated his consciousness. The singular casting drained him of energy and threatened to slip him into memories of his mother casting this rune over them as he sat cradled into her strong muscled side. He pushed the images away and after a moment masked any evidence of the cast from the earth.

…

Neil and his chestnut gelding swiftly covered the high rolling hills of the thin peninsula in four days time. Upon the eve of the fourth day Neil set up camp several leagues from the road; the closer he came to the nearby city, the more travelers appeared on the road alongside him.

At nightfall he retrieved two blueberries from his satchel, set them beside himself, and pulled out the rune-carved talisman that hung around his neck. This stone was white, like the seven stones from his mother, but this one was smaller and flat. A stone pendant from the sands of Passerine; it had an intricate rune carved into both faces. The rune whispered focus and intention, aiding the wearer with a sound mind and sure casts. 

The casting for masking his eye color was much simpler than the one he had performed nights ago and, as most Warbler casts, didn’t require recited words if enough skill and intention was placed behind it.

He rubbed his thumb over the rune and focused his breath, willing the magic of his mother’s people to well up and respond. He crushed one berry on the stone and held it over his right eye, head tilted towards the starry night sky. Blurry as it was so close, Neil felt more than saw the flesh of the berry draw into his eye as if pulled by gravity, none spilling over. He gently closed his right eye and continued on with the second berry, crushing it into the stone, placing the stone over his left eye and felt the magic and berry-juice pool into that eye as well. With his neck craned backwards he focused; B _rown eyes, brown eyes, brown eyes._

He knew the casting was solid and opened his eyes to a clear view of the shrubby glen surrounding him. He settled into his cloak for a long night alone under the waning moon.

 

Neil Josten sold a chestnut gelding to a businesswoman on the outskirts of Sarimbrim. The eastern port city was positioned deep within the long and narrow Bay of Edelshim. Further to the east, across the bay, was a mountainous western bank which led further eastward into the continent.

The woman he sold the horse to had a courier service within the city and was looking for a quick and calm mount for daily rounds of deliveries. She was pleased with the gelding Neil had brought her and didn’t pry as to why he was no longer in need of such a good horse.

Sarimbrim was mostly constructed of wooden buildings, timber likely felled from the northern mountains. The houses and businesses were painted in various colors with mismatching doors. The town’s architecture spoke of whimsical self-expression but the atmosphere within its streets was dour and dismal. Neil observed with suspicion that the only people out in town shuffled along with pallor expressions and nervous quickness to their gaits.

Ordering a meal at a restaurant this time of day should have been met with impatient and harried servers but there was only Neil and a small group of rough sailors in the back of _The Laughing Bear Pub and Hotel._ One of them, the one in the middle, had a crooked grin and dark eyes with a snick of a scar on his chin. Neil’s ingrained sense of observation also made out the glinting metal of a Snareswhip sword hanging off his belt. Snareswhip swords were fashioned of dark metal and imbued with mountain lynx clawdust. A graze from that blade would ache unnaturally and take weeks to heal. A cruel weapon meant to cause suffering. He bounced his eyes away from the dangerous group and focused on the bar counter where he found a stool and sat.

Neil ordered a bowl of the house stew and some bread. He tried not to drool as he waited, hearing clinking and chopping somewhere within the kitchen of the restaurant and inhaling the smell of hot food. The last time Neil had eaten a meal made by a chef he had been with his mother; the thought unfortunately helped to stopper his drooling. 

“‘ere you are.” Said a man in an apron with long gray hair tied back into a loose braid. His beard was impossibly long and Neil considered the chance of finding beard hair in his stew. He tucked in anyways seeing as he hadn’t eaten a substantial meal in weeks and was beginning to resemble a clothed, moving skeleton. The potatoes were soft and hot, the broth red and creamy, and little hunks of what tasted like mountain deer were in every spoonful, soft and buttery. Neil broke off hunks of bread from a loaf that came with his meal and soaked up the remaining broth in monstrous bites.

“Glad you liked it, kid,” said the bearded server from before, who was wiping out glasses a few feet down the counter. He was masking a knowing smile behind an equally ginormous mustache.

Neil bit back his embarrassed scowl and blush, “It was good, thanks.” Neil placed a couple bronze flutes on the counter, the coins clinking under his palm as he slid them toward the man. He tapped his index finger twice as he thought.

“Why is it so quiet around town?” Neil asked in a hushed and unassuming voice.

The man stopped wiping the glass in his hand. He stopped doing anything at all and stood frozen for too long to simply be coming up with an appropriate casual response. Neil wondered if he’d accidentally offended the restauranteur at his lack of customers. But the man turned and discreetly drew closer to Neil, who in turn tensed readying to defend himself from a scorned cook.

“It’s not quiet,” the man supplied in a serious whisper.

“What?” Neil said, his brow beginning to furrow in confusion, his right foot inched backwards preparing to turn and bolt.

The bearded cook looked him in the eyes and said lowly, “It’s not quiet here. This town is screamin’ and weepin’. You best be on your way out, young traveler. S’not safe here in Sarimbrim these days.” The man’s eyes flicked unconsciously to the group of men in the back, a split second and Neil would have missed it.

After nodding and scooping up Neil’s payment of bronze coins, the bearded man casually walked away to continue wiping glasses. Neil took the warning for what it was and left the Pub. Except he didn’t continue on to the port as he had planned, he slipped around the alley and, instinctively cloaking himself in silence, the magic stirring beneath his skin, crept near to where he knew the rough looking group had been seated. He slipped his ear closer to the wooden wall and focused. His veins responded with a thrumming of warmth and magic; his ears began to pick up notes and words.

“…bringing it around tonight. Should be set to go by sunset,” 

“Good. Let’s get out of here. I want at least five more. Our quota isn’t met.”

Creaking chairs and footfalls sounded their departure and Neil slipped further into the alley and rounded a corner to stay out of sight. He couldn’t glean any understanding from what he’d heard except that they were collecting something. Neil headed to the harbor, decidedly done with the city of Sarimbrim.

The docks was large and much busier than center city. Merchants and sailors, government and unaligned, bustled about preparing to set off or were unloading their hauls to get goods to market. Caravels and flagships from numerous nations bled workers in a maze of productivity. The boats sported between two and twelve sails depending on their size, were painted various shades, and glistened against the shimmer of the azure sea. Gulls and sea birds called to each other and flitted around attempting to steal a snack here or there. The sea air breathed salty and fishy.

Neil wandered with the flow of workers and passengers, combining magic with his gained skill at technical deception to mask anyone remembering or even glancing at him. Thankfully most of the people here appeared to have only weak dregs of magic in their veins. 

Neil listened carefully to dock-workers’ conversations and after the eighth variation of, _How many more barels d’we gotta heave? I don’t know, get your ass movin and find out,_ Neil struck success in gleaming that a flagship named _Gilded Hyssop_ was set to sail tonight to Nuind, a city in the Southern Isles. The Southern Isles were a collection of small islands south ofthe Bay of Edelshim and would offer numerous opportunities to stay undetected. Maybe Neil could even get a job doing something menial. Plus they had numerous native fruits that Neil could swipe from small farms or non-vigilant merchants. The journey would be relatively short and a flagship was large enough that Neil could stow away undetected for a week or two.

At nightfall Neil slipped aboard the _Gilded Hyssop_ behind a crewman carrying a heavy sack of what seemed to be potatoes. His blood sung warmly at the exertion of filling the crew-member’s eyes with a void of where Neil stood or walked. The shrinking moon aided his deception and blackened the sky. He found a storage room in the lower decks, climbed into a far corner behind some crates barrels, cast a misdirection rune onto said barrels and attempted to sleep.

…

Jolted from a sporadic dream, Neil lurched into awareness and strained his ears, holding his body as still as he could. What was the sound that had woken him? It had sounded almost like—there it was again; the distinctive notes of people or groups of people who were…crying. Or wailing it seemed. 

Neil tried to pinpoint where the sound was coming from, below him it seemed, and whether or not he was imagining it, possibly he was.

Slipping through the maze of barrels, sackcloths, and crates, Neil slid the latch on the door silently and slid out into the narrow hall. He crept down the darkened narrow passageway and around a corner where it widened to a proper hallway and had more doors in regular intervals. The boat swayed gently with the waves. He listened and focused his intention on any other noises coming from within the vessel. Voices. Voices were coming from nearby. Agitated, muted, and discordant. Neil slipped through shadow and stillness around a second corner and down a second hall, his fingers brushed the chilly hilt of the dagger strapped to his thigh. Light slid out of the crack at the bottom of a door at the end of the hall. Silent as a passing fog, Neil listened.

A gruff voice grumbled, “…made quota. He should be pleased! Damn city… we found a few rare gems but most are common rocks, ya get me? Gettin’ that forged export slip was enough trouble. Why the ‘ell he wants us to bring ‘em all to Deshav is beyon’ me.”

The voice continued but Neil’s mind had lurched to a sick halt. Bile threatened to spill over his lips at the name of the port city of his father’s nation. The stench of burning flesh and molten rock filled his sinuses, the copper tang of blood like thick phlegm on the back of his throat.

His mother would never have allowed him to board such a hazardous ship and he could feel the knuckles smack against his skull and the fingers tearing his hair in punishment. Neil’s emotions riled aflame in his chest, he felt too much all at once.

Inadequacy boiled in his gut. 

Anger at himself for stepping aboard a ship full of criminals working directly for his father gripped his throat hard and squeezed _._

Terror of what his father would do to him were he caught tinted his vision red and whistled static in his ears.

Suffocating fear and unquenchable anger fused his temper to soaring heights. Neil unsheathed his dagger and slammed the door open. Two people sat in front of a wooden desk, another sat behind it. The light of a single lantern cast circular shadows on every edge of the walls, floor, and low ceiling. Their eyes jumped to him, drawn by the sudden and impossible intruder’s movement. A second passed and the two in front of the desk stood, drawing sword and dagger. 

They charged with, “Who the he—”

Neil was faster. He slid the edge of his dagger smoothly across the throat of the person who had spoke from behind and kicked him forward into the other man. With that body disguising Neil’s pounce, he staked the other crewperson in the heart, slipping his knife in and out as practiced a motion as fastening the buckles on his boots.

Neil’s eyes immediately sought out the third and final person in the room. Recognition registered in his mind, from the _Laughing Bear Pub and Hotel_ who wielded a Snareswhip sword. The man kicked the desk forwards into Neil, who vaulted over it and towards the man. He prepared for a dark long blade. His own dagger met the lighter blade of a similar short knife and peeled out a screech as they collided. Neil cursed his ignorance and flicked the thinner blade hidden in his left sleeve into his palm, barely stopping the Snareswhip sword as the man swung it up towards Neil’s abdomen with his other hand. 

The man’s expression darkened. Neil assumed it was because he had tasted mostly success with that move. Neil jerked his arms to either side, flicking the man’s blades out and away giving him enough time to impale the bared throat and abdomen respectively. Neil slid the dagger in the man’s throat to the right while his blade in the man’s abdomen slid to the left, emptying him of blood and bowels. He flopped to the floor with a thick squelch. Blood leaked and spread out from each body coating the brown wood in crimson.

Adrenaline still pulsing through his veins, Neil darted out of the captain’s quarters and up the stairs onto the deck of the ship. Nightfall had brought a strong and choppy wind that tossed Neil’s black hair about his vision. The waves surged and swelled with the tide, the moon crawling behind the shadow of the earth.

There were seven men tending to the sails in the night, guiding the ship through the bay. Neil didn’t bother with disguising his presence from them. 

There were seven bloody bodies strewn about the deck as Neil sought out a life boat on the starboard side of the _Gilded Hyssop._ He slipped inside the small vessel and triggered the lever to release the boat. Launched downwards into the blackened swell of breaking waves, he began the arduous task of rowing himself to the shore several leagues westward.

 

* * *

 

The woman brushed her fingertips lovingly over the smooth surface of a palm size dark blue stone with flecks of gold throughout. She could see images, predictions, requests. A lonely serpent. A heaving mare birthing a thousand foals.

Her deep brown eyes gazed through the glassy surface of the Bay, a glimpse of red and then darkness. “Blood,” her voice is gentle, a single gentle note in contrast to the crush of breaking waves and scouring wind. 

The others in the caravel train their gazes on her, one considers that, _there is always more blood._ Another muses whether they will be the ones drawing or be the ones drained; experience suggests the former. A last turns away to face the growing outline of a flagship under the moon.

The small band of hooded figures furl up the sails of their sleek caravel and fasten ties into the side of a flagship. Silently they shoot up a ladder, attaching itself with hooks into the wood of the port side of a large vessel with _Gilded Hyssop_ painted into the side near the bow. 

They notice the smell first, coppery and thick. The one with good eyes makes out the seven bodies leaking their blood over the deck almost immediately. He recovers in the instant it takes to pull once from his cigarette and then makes a bee-line for the entrance to the lower levels of the flagship. The captain’s quarters are in a similar state, he finds. The captain himself is kindly decorating the floor with his liver and intestines, etc. A walk to the back of the ship and into one of the storage rooms reveals a trap door in the floor. He flicks it open and glances down once.

The storage room opposite the hall is much more interesting. He doesn’t want to go into one of the back corners. He can’t explain _why_ he doesn’t want to, his body just keeps refusing to enter the space. He tries a few more times to get a trace of the scent of magic he knows is there. It smells odd, like nothing at all and yet, it _smells_. Smells in the way that the air in the rest of the storage room does not. He has never experienced this particular smell before, which is rare and rarity is troubling, rarity presents opportunity for problems.

A knock on the doorframe means the others have gotten the captives out of the pit, “Come here,” he says. 

“What, did you find a second trap door under the potatoes?”

Impatient, he grabs his comrade and simply pushes him into the corner, pleased to see the way his body is rejected violently and he tumbles to the ground with a loud thump.

“What the hell?!” spits his heap of a comrade.

He leaves the lump of man and makes his way up to the deck where their rock-weilding crew-member is standing and looking out over the starboard side of the vessel to the far shore. A couple distant lights gleam, marking out small villages. He notices the lack of two life boats. 

She considers his pointed look, “Ah, yes. We might be thinking the same thing.” She slips him a small smile and turns away, walking over to their captain. The other comrade has de-crumpled himself because he’s standing next to the captain now.

The captain speaks in a gruff voice, “All the captured citizens are now safely aboard our shitty little caravel. Anybody wanna shoot off a guess as to why we stepped onto a bloody fucking ghost ship?”

The serene-voiced woman speaks, “We may have an idea,” she indicates to the shorter crew-member who doesn’t return her look but begins lighting up a second rolled cigarette.

The captain stares at him for a long minute before sighing and scrubbing a hand over his face, “You wanna enlighten the rest of us?”

The smoking crew-member lets out a thick breath of smoke, “Two life-boats.”

The captain waits. And then he sighs. 

The woman crew-member steps in, “A crew of fourteen worked this flagship full of trafficked citizens from Sarimbrim. Ten were found freshly killed upon our arrival. That leaves four unaccounted for. A life-boat from this vessel operates most efficiently with four passengers,” she spreads her hands to accompany the reveal. “So why are there _two_ life-boats missing?”

The third crew-member speaks up, “You’re saying this wasn’t a mutiny gone bad? There was a infiltrator? But that doesn’t make sense. Why board a ship, kill three quarters of the crew and then just fuck off?” his exasperation catching along the edges of the words.

“I believe,” she palms the stone in her pocket, “we are to pursue the infiltrator,” she turns towards the starboard bow again, the image of a lone snake writhing.

 

* * *

 

Neil wandered southward along the coastline, exhaustion from his effort in rowing to shore cementing weights to his narrow frame and pulling him down. Like a hangover Neil had never experienced, his run-in with the mention of his father’s nation and the too-close call had left him hollow and weary. Musing on his purposelessness, the chronic futility of his evasion of a man he once shared a dining table with infected his mind with a familiar fatigue. He didn’t know why he was still running, to stay alive yes but beyond that, what was there _really_ for Neil. To live in constant motion, never settling enough for anyone to learn his name. Sometimes Neil couldn’t remember if it was him that was fond of certain things or if it had been a side-effect of Alex, or Stephan, or Chris. Did he really enjoy swimming as much as he had when they lived on the coast of Alrhadet or was that just a characteristic he had assigned to Khassim? Was his affinity for stringed instruments a personal liking or was it a subconscious effort to make Lucien a more rounded persona? His mother would beat him if she knew he felt so hopeless. But she had been killed. A prelude to a fate Neil would arrive at sooner than not.

A thick bramble of shrubby trees served as a good enough spot to rest for the night, so Neil crawled a ways into the maze of coiling branches, curled in on himself, and shrouding his body beneath his thick dark-green cloak and slumped into a fitful slumber.

His dreams were scoured in crimson. The heat of his father’s citadel carved into the side of a wide and monstrous volcano compressed his chest with it’s poisonous weight. Neil was walking through the dining room, three settings upon the table. The walls arched up overhead and the volcanic fireplace glowed maliciously along the wall. Neil kept his arms tucked in tight to his body and passed through the room. The doorway was arched and laced with intricate carvings of the many of the Great Beasts including Leviathin, Griffin, Hound, Raven, Basilisk, and Varengan.

The room around him shifted and seeped like thick coagulated blood.. Neil was in the heart of the citadel in a room his father favored. Three walls were onyx black stone, shimmering from the light of the fourth. The last wall was a sheet of thickly flowing magma. It glowed deep vermillion and breathed searing heat. 

A young boy stood in the center of the room, still as a corpse. His father’s voice thudded in his ears, “Feel the burn of heat under your flesh, it’s in your veins. Your bones were hewn from this mountain and you move as it moves, with molten rock pumped by your heart to your limbs and back.” Neil was the young boy, this was a memory. He heard his father with these ears and saw him with these eyes. The body of his four year old self trembled as he focused, to follow his father’s commands and instructions. His eyes widened as they caught his reflection echoing off the onyx walls and he registered the recognition that had been trickling through his mind up until now; this was the first day he had ever shifted.

Neil woke with a jerk to the pounding of his heart and felt himself coated in hot sweat. He clutched his chest, fingernails biting crescent lines into soft flesh. _Not now._ He begged his lungs to steady despite the chilling memories crawling up his spinal cord like poison insects. His ears registered crackling around him and his nose caught the overwhelming stench of burnt wood. He opened his eyes and thought with hellish fear that he was trapped inside his dream-memory. Thick searing magma surround his body and had caught the brambles in flame. Neil realized he _had_ woken and that _he_ had caused this. His subconscious had so easily conjured the magic that he so desperately tried to conceal. 

Throwing his body into motion, he vaulted himself over the red-glowing liquid-rock and began to run.

His legs gave out on him some hours later. By then the sun had begun to climb to its seat in the center of the sky and Neil was coated in sweat, his breaths drawing in to his lungs with a scouring pain. His limbs shook with overuse, muscles threatening to cramp. Neil rolled to his back and gulped in air, pressing his left arm over his eyes to shade the sunlight.

He clenched his other fist and slammed it against the ground in frustration. A sob threatened to rip from his lips so he ground his teeth together, reigning in the emotions begging to tear through his hard-won seals of control. 

How long he laid there, Neil didn’t know. But his muscles had stopped trembling, his lungs had steadied, and the sweat from his skin had evaporated. Neil uncrossed the arm over his face and sat up taking in his surroundings. The landscape had changed or rather Neil had ran in a haphazard panic and he was several leagues inland, and at least leagues south of where he had been sleeping in the bramble. The terrain around him was woodsy and Neil was in a much higher altitude. The long peninsula was a mountain range, it’s coast simply where the edges of those mountains dipped their sprawling spine into the sea.

Birds with long tail feathers rested in high branches above him, peering down at him with intelligent eyes. Squirrels flitted about chasing one another and scrabbling up the steep trunks of thick redwood and fir trees. The bed of the forest was soft beneath Neil; he brushed his palm over the top layer of needles, leaves, and loam. A creek trickled nearby, skipping over rocks and down the pitch of mountainside. Neil followed it’s song to find the creek and traced it up the mountain walking slowly, carefully keeping his mind blank but for registering the sounds of the forest and the brush of sunlight slipping through the canopy of leaves overhead.

After what must have been hours, the creek widened off into a small pond surrounded on all sides by mountains. The surface shimmered underneath the afternoon sun, small pools of fish flowed and danced in patterns. A fattened Guppysnake slithered along the bottom of the lake; a gentle and slow moving creature with orange beady eyes, a long cylindrical body, and tiny feet that seemed to serve no purpose.

Neil dropped his satchel to the ground and began to strip off his clothing. He unclasped the thick green cloak at his throat, then began to unstrap the myriad knives and sheaths he had attached to his body. The long dagger at his thigh, the smaller knives along both forearms, the two along his ankles, and one attached to his belt at the small of his back. How he loathed these particular weapons and yet without them he would be so easily slain. After all, Neil had been trained extensively in knives and knew them best. Still, on bad days the glint of metal in his hands threatened to paralyze him but he needed offensive prowess too much to risk abandoning them. 

Neil unbuckled his leather boots next, slipping them off his feet along with black wool socks. Next came his dark gray leather vest, untied and slipped from his wiry frame. He unbuttoned the collar of his gray long sleeve linen shirt and slipped it up over his shoulders and head. He unbuttoned his coal-black pants and slid them down his lean legs along with the stretchy gray underpants. 

Neil searched through his bag, unbothered by his nudity in the thick forest shrouded from any person’s gaze by the remoteness of his location. His hand fastened around the nub of soap and he retrieved it from his satchel. He knelt by the mouth of the creek by the lake and washed his undershirt, pants, underwear and socks in the water with the soap. He then hung them along branches to dry in the sun and breeze. 

He slipped his body into the lake water. Silt and sand pooled beneath his feet. He rubbed the soap along his body, shucking off the layer of dried sweat and dirt. First he scrubbed his arms, long and thin but well muscled. This is where the scars began. He had light razor-thin lines littering his hands and arms. 

Neil moved on to scrubbing his neck, chest, and stomach. Here the scars were heaviest and most gruesome. A thick curving line carved over his collar bone and hooked around his sternum. The star-point of a long since healed arrow wound puckered on the center of his chest. His abdomen was a grisly testament to the many nights spent threading his flesh back together. Countless raised thick lines sculpted proof of slashes deep enough to warrant stitching, the dotted puckering scars from the needlepoint visible along the edges. A crumpled and raised span of scar tissue wound along his side from when he had jumped off a galloping horse onto a cobblestone road. The burn on his right shoulder where his father had branded him with a homemade livestock iron infused with curses and dark magic, the whitened scar tissue formed the shape of a twisted serpent swallowing it's own tail. 

Neil washed these parts with a detached eye, unwilling to let his mind wander. 

He moved onto his back which had significantly less scaring but was covering in multiple peculiar magical tattoos. Warbler runes inked into his skin by Casting, to better disguise his bloodlines' prominent and revealing features. A twisting of deep indigo lines looped down from a point at the base of his neck, out to either shoulder point and then down to the center of his back. A second tattooed rune began where the first ended. A deep ruby-red tattoo of almost identical design as the first trailed across the center of his back. This one had sharper lines, thinning and thickening along the curves but the pattern was the same. A third and final rune was inked into his skin at the crest of his tailbone. Identical in color to the ruby-red rune but completely different in shape and slightly smaller. It had four points and was elongated on top and bottom. Intricate lines twisted and circled each other in a diamond shape.

His mother had cast these runes onto him when he was ten years old and Neil could still feel the crush of his small palms on his mouth to stifle the screaming. He had spatters of blood on his palms when she was finished. The memory of how painful each cast had been sent a shiver that fizzled out through his toes and fingers.

Neil washed his face and hair last. Along his scalp were two small tattooed runes his mother had cast along with the others. These were located above his ears behind his temples. They were the ruby-red shade and small enough to be only a knot of delicate lines. Neil scratched the soap into his curls and then submerged his body entirely to rinse off the suds. He set the soap nub on a rock near the shore and then Neil began to swim.

He slipped beneath the glassy surface of the lake, illuminated by the sun. Neil glided down to the bottom and gave the guppy-snake a gentle scratch and rubbed its belly. He kicked off the bottom of the lake and twisted around himself, enjoying the weightlessness and freedom of the water.

Neil continued along that vein until he found himself floating along the surface when the sun began to set behind the mountains to the west. Surprised by how long he had dawdled in the water, Neil hurried to the shore and quickly dressed himself in his now clean and dry clothing. He sought out a high bough of a redwood, climbed up, secured himself into a remotely comfortable position, and settled in to sleep for the night.

* * *

The quartet of hooded figures sailed their caravel full of trafficked citizens back to the city of Sarimbrim. They released the group of young men and women onto the docks and quickly turned south. With the western winds filling their sails they glided southward, returning to the position in the Bay where they had boarded the _Gilded Hyssop._

“I still don’t understand _why_ we are wasting our time with this infiltrator of yours,” said the taller of the crew-mates, sending a pointed look in the woman’s direction. Her psychic prowess and vaguely defined link with the spirits of earth-stones was nebulous in explanation.

The woman in question reached into her bag and retrieved a smooth stone the size of her fingernail and impossibly white, almost iridescent if held in the correct light. She held it gently and unassumingly in her palm, “This stone has been whispering since we boarded the blood laden vessel, words I cannot understand, a language too old for my ears to recognize. The day it gifted itself to me was the first and last day I heard it speak. Until now.” She lifted her gaze to her comrades, “This stone is from the desert of Passerine.”

Two sets of eyes widened at that statement. The last comrade let out a barking laugh, cigarette hanging loosely from a freshly intoxicated and too-wide grin. 

Their captain was the next to cut through the thick surprise, “You’re tellin’ me that little pebble is from the unbreachable desert? How did you even—never mind, I don’t wanna know. So, what. This person we’re following, you’re telling me that they have Warbler blood in them? Hell, that sure as shit would be useful to our team but…” The captain’s eyes hazed over in thought. He rubbed a gruff hand over his stubbly chin, “I can’t imagine we’d get enough seconds in to talk before they take off running. We’ll be hard pressed to find them a second time once they catch on to us trailing them.”

“So we just need to trap him like a rabid rodent cap’n!” said the smoking comrade donning a sarcastic smile, “Slap a little peanut butter in a bowl, slip it in a cage, hide behind a bush and _snap_ goes the door. Your own personal desert bird. A king’s ransom!” He turned to the taller comrade and loudly pretended to whisper a conspiratorial, “Hey, hey, how much would your raven-king shell out for a hog-tied Warbler? Shipping and handling complementary of course.”

The taller man paled and snapped his face away from the shorter man as if he’d been slapped, “If you think I would—”

The captain intervened, “Damn it, we just freed a whole city’s worth of youths we’re not moonlighting as traffickers now!”

The woman stepped in to get the team back on the objective, “To answer your initial query,” She turned to the taller comrade who was slowly leaking life back into his brown skin, “…our fate is circular much like time; it does not flow in a straight path. Any singular event is occurring in spherical design; as I had fresh caught fish this morning for breakfast, I am also slipping my six year old toes into my first pair of shoes. The only beings experiencing these occurrences in a one-at-a-time fashion are ours immediate selves. The stones don’t show me a right and a wrong choice in paths. They lead me towards what _should_ be, the path I am meant to take, for better and for worse.”

The tall comrade didn’t exactly look satisfied at this explanation. He merely scowled, relenting to the fact that he might never fully grasp the intricacies of psychic magic. He growled out, “If they don’t have a bloodprove, I’m not wasting my time.” 

The woman smiled gently and fixed her gaze on him, “Many of our fellow comrades do not have a bloodprove and they function as equal members of our organization.”

The shortest of the group aimed a sharp jab to the tall man and said, with a chiding laugh, “Your magical elitism is exposing itself.”

 

* * *

 

A bloodprove was a physical manifestation of one’s magical ancestry. From birth the prove appeared as natural as an arm or foot but they were limbs or physical aspects of whichever magical beast one’s blood ran thickest with. Most denizens did not have enough magic needed to bear a bloodprove, but a little over five percent of the population were born with these mystical features. Enough to warrant admiration but not too little that it was surprising. Bloodprove manifestation varied from full appendages to small non-functioning vestigial limbs.Most people had mild to moderate strength in their magic and could perform basic castings, spells, or exercises of their magic, but did not bear a bloodprove, a sign of stronger magical potential.

Hybrid bloodproves were also possible. A combination of two powerful lineages of magic could blend and produce an amalgam of physical aspects from two different magical beasts but it was uncommon. Like combining two recessive genes, a hybrid was viable, but more often than not, one magical line’s genes usually took dominance over the other and was the sole physical presenter of a bloodprove.

Rarer even more so, were people who’s physical form could shift into an approximate reincarnation of their ancestry’s magical beast. Generations could pass with no child bearing this ability or there could be a few in one and then none for a century afterwards. It was a fickle gift and some groups even believed it to be an omen from the magical beasts who had vanished so many millennia ago. Pragmatically, it was an exceptionally rare recessive trait most often passed down through direct lines of ancestry. Colloquially, those who could exercise this skill were referred to as _shifters_. 

Bloodproves could be found in the likenesses of the Great Beasts. The Great Beasts lived upon the land many millenia ago before bestowing their magic to the peoples and relinquishing their physical forms. 

Psychic magic was distinctly different than beast magic. Whereas beast magic was passed along bloodlines, psychic capabilities were bestowed upon people at a time during their lives by the earth itself. Most often it manifested in an affinity with reading gemstones or herbs and utilizing their magical properties in a strikingly efficient manner. People with this gift were informally named witches.

Magic wove itself into the world in many other ways as well, but they were difficult to categorize and define. Many scholars spent their lives cataloguing the ways in which magic threaded itself out into the known universe.

 

* * *

 

The group of four arrived at the coordinates of where they had intersected with the _Gilded Hyssop_ and turned westward towards the nearby shore.

Once they were near enough to shore, they scouted out an inlet in which to drop anchor and disguise their ship. They took the small life-boat to shore and stepped onto a rocky beach. For a few leagues inland the land was flat but then it ascended up towards the peaks of the long mountain range that formed the peninsula.

The team all looked to the shortest of their crew, who was busy unbuckling the latch on his flask. The captain spoke up, “Are you able to catch any trails of scent from here?”

The short man didn’t glance up and took a long swing. Then he spoke, “Oh, captain. I smell a lot of scents. The rose candy I have in my pocket, the bearcat that gave birth in the woods seven leagues from here, the sneapsnake that took a shit two feet from where he is walking,” he flicked a hand towards the tallest crew-member who begrudgingly glanced around himself in search of the offending feces, “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“The infiltrator we are attempting to intercept,” said the captain in a growl, “Are you able to identify and follow their scent?”

“Oh! _That_ scent,” the shorter one said with a falsely lilting timber, “Yes, the trail starts here comrades!”

“Which direction?” snapped the tallest crew-member.

The shorter man slung an arm around the taller man’s shoulders, wrenching him down, and leant in conspiratorially, pointing his finger towards the tree line a ways down the coast. “Just over that ridge there,” he shoved the man forwards, who shook out his shoulders, and the group began to make their way, following his directions.

They arrived at a thickly threaded shroud of brush and low trees where even the least perceptive of them could smell the stench of burnt wet wood. Clambering through the maze of branches, they reached a small patch of the bramble where the earth was scorched pitch black and the nearby limbs had been turned into charred coals hanging deathly still.

“Did they light up a bonfire? The hell…” the captains voice trailed off as he took in the bizarre scene.

“Perhaps a ritual of some sort…” the woman’s voice was soft and questioning. She bent down to pick up some of the ash and furrowed her brow, “There were stones here. Well, I certainly can feel a wisp of them, as if they weren’t fully formed. It’s strange… I’ve only ever heard this specific cadence… it doesn’t make sense.”

The short man took an exaggerated turn and said, “Well, I think it is safe to say we can move on from the abnormally large campfire.” The captain heaved a sigh and, after a long glance at the barren clearing, moved the group on. 

The quartet hiked westward. They walked briskly through layers of saplings and underbrush until they reached the edge of the forested mountains and traveled across fern covered soft ground, winding a path through the dense forest. The trees grew wider and older as the group climbed higher in altitude. The animals were larger here, where the air was thinner. Black mountain bears left piles of feces, herds of woodland elk had scratched their antlers upon some thinner trees, and the birds had wingspans to match the spanning lengths of ancient tree boughs.

They walked steadily into the darkening of the evening until the shorter one held up his hand, leather squeaking with the flex of his muscles as he motioned for them to take a break to eat and drink. The team members ate from packs of nuts and berries, and drank from canteens filled with fresh water.

The short man dug his hand into a pocket on the tallest member’s bag and retrieved a vile full of a mash of herbs stoppered with a cork. He popped the cork off with his thumb and swallowed its contents with a slight grimace.

“Do you know how far away they are?” asked the woman, chewing on a couple cranberries.

“I can see them from here,” supplied the shorter crew-mate, hazel eyes shining brightly westward under the waxing moon.

“What’s the situation?” inquired the captain.

“Hmm, at least a few knives. They’re asleep. Up a tree.”

The captain rubbed a hand over his chin and looked to the other two crew-members, “We’ll wait till sun up, or whenever they wake. Then approach them. We will only get one chance to make contact. If we spook them early they’ll run and we’ll never catch up with the illusory Warbler magic on top of—”

The woman cleared her throat, “Captain.”

He looked up at her, “What?”

She ticked her head to where the shorter crew-member had been sitting, where he should have still been seated. But the spot was vacant and they could just barely glimpse a form jogging westward from their position.

“For fucks sake!”

 

* * *

 

Neil was plucked from his dreams with the nauseating loss of his own weight, a gruesome quiver of surprise shot through his lungs staining his breaths in panic. His body crumpled with a thud on the forest floor, he remembered: he had been sleeping on a bough high up in a tall redwood tree. The same bough now lay several feet away from his now aching body, puffing up dust from its collision with the soft layers of decomposing leaves and dirt.

Neil’s instincts thrummed through him in familiar practice; Warbler magic germinated beneath his chest and, like a glass upended, poured throughout his physical body. To anyone else, Neil’s body would have appeared to have physically vanished as if plucked from the earth by a god. Neil took a few seconds and ran through his limbs like a checklist, examining himself for breaks. Just bruises, it seemed. The cushion of the forest floor must have protected him from incapacitating injuries.

He looked up and immediately into the face of a cruelly grinning Hound bloodprove. Piercing hazel eyes accompanied by the tell-tale magical physical traits of a human born into strong Hound bloodlines: Pointed golden wolf-like ears crowned the blond head. His mind supplied with a click how the tree branch had been broken: the Original Hound was fabled to have born the northern islands of frozen glacier, commanding the ice and cold as naturally as the oxygen processed through breathing lungs. The person must have severed the limb with a sharp hardened projectile of ice.

“Oh my, what a foul stench!” said the attacker and Neil, hidden from sight though he was, remembered with a terrible gasp that Hounds were also gifted in perceiving magic through scent. Disguising one’s scent was a difficult task as a Warbler didn’t know exactly _what_ they were disguising; they couldn’t smell their own magical scent. Neil focused on magnifying the smells and sounds of the forest around him in the attacker’s nose and ears. He slowly began to raise his body preparing to run shrouding any stray noises in the sounds of the trees creaking, the lake shore disrobing across stone, and the woodland animals scuffling.

A second voice cut through Neil’s focus, a harsh and aged male voice. It strangled the calm mechanical process of fleeing into one of horror. A frightened child hiding in a silk-lined cabinet, trembling with dribbles of tears leaking down young cheeks as the man inched closer with a grin sharpened to sever limbs—

“Minyard, fuck! Do you listen to the plan and then knee-jerk your pocket-sized self into orchestrating the exact opposite?!” The gruff male voice growled and the second attacker stepped huffing into sight. A third body followed with a starless gaze, methodically digesting the sights before her.

Neil couldn’t take three possibly magically skilled fighters let alone the harrowing process of combatting an ice-endowed Hound. Thankfully the other two didn’t bear bloodproves. He loosened his muscles in a eruption of speed and abandoned the clearing. 

A bubble of delighted laughter rang out behind him followed by the sound of tearing fabric and the foreboding thuds of a galloping beast. Neil’s legs burned with added effort in fear of what that galloping sound couldn’t but certainly meant. 

Shrill hysterical laughter threatened to break through Neil’s tightly clenched teeth. The Hound bloodprove was a _shifter._ Visions of a blood-scaled devil slammed into the door of Neil’s consciousness and took the hinges off the walls. 

He was too late to dodge the snapping strike but in time to feel the searing pain of teeth sinking into his left shoulder. He and the beast spilled across the forest floor. When they stopped sliding through mossy loam and muddy leaves, Neil found himself held down by the weight of a dagger-clawed paw pressing into his chest and the vice-jaw that had his flesh in a fang-toothed clinch. Heady breaths came from the seven foot tall monster that rang out with an after tone of thrilled cackling. Neil’s Cast of illusion was beginning to shudder with the pained shoves of his pulse and the hot exhales condensing on his skin, mottling around tender flesh and exposing Neil’s fear in rivulets of crimson blood.

Neil slipped the knife hidden in his right forearm into his palm. He had the gleaming pointed tip a breath away from the beast’s golden dilated eye when a stone hard grip trapped his wrist in place. The woman scrutinized the approximate shape of where Neil lay with a dark gaze.

Neil was unnerved by her ability to pinpoint his arm even under illusion and recoiled at the thought of how his physical form must be seeping in and out of vision as his cast deteriorated under the infecting pain from his where the Hound was still clamped to his shoulder.

Neil attempted to coil his body up and out of their grasp in a firm jerk of his spine that inadvertently beveled the teeth deeper into his back. The beast neatly sat on his legs, pressing him into the dirt and the air out of his lungs. He was convinced he caught more snarling snickers from the beast’s broad rib cage.

“Damn it, Minyard!” The older man who had spoken earlier took in the site with a furrowed brow and a frown. He huffed out a frustrated breath and walked towards the tangle of bodies. 

“I’m gonna make this quick.” Neil’s body shuddered in a frenzy at the implication, scrambling for any opening to escape, “My name is David Wymack.”

Neil stopped thrashing and froze. He recognized that name. He understood what they wanted now. He looked at the man properly, “Foxes,” he rasped out.

“So you’ve hear of us. That makes this easier,” the man said with intent glinting in his eyes.

Neil had caught the tales of a group of skilled operatives combating the corruption and cruelty and the more sinister plots of power hungry nations. A drunken official blathering on loudly in a small town’s local pub had spoken a little to much only to be ignored by most who believed the rumors to be a fantasy of peace-seeking citizens. 

Neil was more attune to the thrum of under-table government operations than the average pub-goer and recognized a well orchestrated plot when he hear it drooled from the lips of a drunk. Secretly backed by a branch of the United Governance of Nations, David Wymack, a former strategist and ranking officer was the most likely candidate to lead such an outrageous operation. He still remembered the hiccuping drawl, _…bastardssays he’s givin’ chances ta magyshns who’da been killed er imprissnd! Whatta load uh donkey piss i says…_

“Where did you track me from?” Neil demanded. He needed to assess how much of his skills the group had seen already, and what information he could still control.

“You left quite a scene on the _Gilded Hyssop_.” Wymack said with a tiredly reproving tone, looking at the ground where he knew Neil’s still shrouded body must lie, “You gonna cut the mirror magic anytime soon?”

Neil frowned, thankful they couldn’t quite see, at the mention of that flagship which almost sent Neil directly to his father. He repressed his mind’s urge to run a reel through the memories of that night. 

He hesitated, but after a moment to steel himself, tapered the Cast of Warlber magic melding his form in illusion. Three sets of eyes snapped to study his now visible form. One was calculative, the second piercing and curious, and the last was assessing.

“This your standard practice for recruitment then?” Neil sneered, “Bit of advice, it fucking sucks.” 

“No. It’s not,” the man snarled out. Neil flinched at the angry tone from the older man. _Too close, too close, sounds too much like—_ He aborted that thought as soon as it began to gestate. He prayed he didn’t betray his wince to the two bodies holding him captive but knew they must have detected the shudder.

Wymack began to speak again but was cut off as a fourth body entered the fray and set Neil’s already rapid heartbeat to seizing like he’d been caught sneaking out of bed at night that time he was five and oh how the blade had stung his tender flesh and that _smile—_ Neil glued his mind to the present but the seal was cracked and he leaked into memory.

 

_The lean body of his father snapped in half with each drop of the axe. The man beneath gurgled and convulsed, already too far spent to scream._

_His father with the searing grin dripped crimson molten rock from his index finger and cauterized the wounds to lengthen his pleasure and draw out the killing._

_Neil was ten years old and had seen this process enough to know how many pieces a single body would shatter into across the floor like the shards of a porcelain vase dropped from too small hands._

_The boys watching next to him were two years older, one looked on with rapt interest, the other was pale with sweat beading across his forehead, the looming threat of a child’s fear-induced vomit._

 

Neil skinned his consciousness off from that particular memory with a ragged breath. The face of the second boy now stood before Neil. Eight years had passed and Kevin Day still had the same jade-green eyes, looping black hair, and tawny-brown skin. His expression was firm but the lines between his brow and sallow under-eye pockets betrayed his anxiety, an ebony numeral two tattooed at the crest of his left cheekbone.

Neil noticed second that the distinct Griffin bloodprove was bewilderingly absent. The gold and ochre feathered wings that had spanned his back when he was a child were impossibly missing from his frame. Neil knew the likelihood of Kevin having found and permitted a Warbler to cast them in runes of concealment and his mind cruelly supplied the only other explanation.

When Kevin had left the care of the Moriyama family, they said it was due to an injury. Neil couldn’t process the only sensible truth but it manifested in his mind in spite of his trepidation, s _omeone had removed his wings by force._ Neil felt as if he had guzzled acid, it corroded in the pit of his stomach. His back crackled in phantom pain.

He knew his facial expression had betrayed him when the grip on his left arm softened a fraction. He glanced at the woman whose eyes studied him with deep attention. He nicked his eyes to the beast with it’s weight still on his chest and fangs infuriatingly rooted in his left shoulder. Golden wolfish eyes bore into Neil’s as if to pin him down more so.

Neil tore his eyes away and set them once again on Kevin, this time searching for any semblance of recognition. Would Kevin see him for what he was? Neil was sure if he did, Kevin would advise his comrades to abandon him immediately.

“So you know why we’re here. You know what we are offering you. You can accept or decline. Although your skill _appears_ to be quite lacking,” Kevin gave him a pointed look; Neil knew he was referring to Neil’s lack of a bloodprove.

Neil considered suggesting Kevin have his comrade give him a matching bite. They could compare magical prowess with Neil shoving a fist through Kevin’s teeth while he bled out. The thought pulled his mouth into a slight sneer.

Neil’s body tugged at his shirttails in the pain at his shoulder and the blood siphoning away from his beating heart. His first priority was to stop the bleeding. He couldn’t risk disrobing in front of Kevin. He would catch the myriad scars and the intricate cast rune lines on his shoulders and back, they were scraps of a map that, if stitched together with Kevin’s foreknowledge, could lead Neil straight back into his father’s vicious arms. 

“First get your dog off me. Then maybe I'll let you talk some more about your band of justice slinging bards,” Neil sniped. The Hound beast tightened his jaw slightly as breathy growls whistled out through the slits in his razor sharp maw.

“Andrew,” Wymack said.

The Hound stayed seated atop Neil’s legs. Golden eyes snapped to the woman’s face and they exchanged a silent conversation until the woman released Neil’s wrist and slowly backed away. Next were the deathly sharp rows of incisors uprooting themselves from their bed in Neil’s reddened weeping flesh. The Hound backed away far enough that should Neil run again, he would need only to lunge forward a single stride in order to reaffirm the placement of his teeth.

Neil slowly pulled himself to a seated position, with a hand pressed into the seeping wounds along his shoulder, he took several moments to jerkily guide air into his strained lungs. The woman moved as if she wanted to help him but his face must have made clear to her how he would react to that.

He pulled on the strap of his satchel that had slipped from his back during the tumble with his left arm and sat it in his lap. He worked methodically through his options, he could remove his shirt and properly clean and dress the wound. But that would expose his scars and back runes to the group so the option was discarded in an instant. 

Neil settled for a temporary herbal solution. He pulled a small brown woven drawstring bag out of his satchel that held a mixture of tangerine calendula petals and petite ivory yarrow blossoms. Both were strong anti-hemorrhagic herbs that could be used to pack a wound for a day or two while one searched for more permanent healing. Their petals would absorb much of the blood and block any continued flow past an open wound.

Neil kept his audience in his peripheral as he balled up portions of calendula and yarrow. He held his wince easily as he inserted the herbs into the rows of puncture wounds that traced a ‘U’ shaped constellation over his collar bone and into his chest with a mirror image on the back of his left shoulder.

He wiped his bloody hands off on the thick fabric of his pants and flicked his gaze to just beneath Wymack’s collar.

“I’m not skilled enough to qualify for your team,” Neil asserted.

Kevin spoke in response, “Accurate but inconsequential. You’re a decent fighter and have skills no other nation or cooperative has access to or knowledge of. We can utilize this endlessly and easily improve your combat skills.”

Hearing Kevin Day, albeit begrudgingly attempt to convince Neil to accompany his group struck a fierce chord of grief within his gut and it rang out through his limbs, the reverb bringing memories of childhood friends and snippets of news heard over drunken discussion in pubs.

Neil had carefully curated data about Kevin Day and Riko Moriyama since the day Mary smuggled her son out of her husband’s hellish nation. Fierce longing and jealously were overwritten by a consuming desperation to witness Kevin and Riko make it out alright in the world. If Neil couldn’t have happiness or moderate mundanity he’d live vicariously through these two childhood friends who still had possibilities.

“I don’t have any desire to be part of a group of rebels who aid citizens and give warmongering nations the metaphorical finger,” Neil stoked his words with distain, hoping to discourage the group into the short version of the conversation he knew they were trying to have.

Movement on the fringe of Neil’s peripheral caught his attention. The Hound had shifted back and dressed himself in fresh clothing. His human form was short, even shorter than Neil by at least an inch or two. His hair was tawny-gold and cascaded over the hound-like ears shooting up out of his skull. He was fastening black armguards to his forearms which Neil saw were strung with threads of ice. 

Neil assumed his other set of clothing had been ripped apart with the explosive transition from child sized man to colossal beast. The blond lit a rolled cigarette with a tinder box and flint and held it between his fingers, watching Neil with a lazy smile.

The woman who had held Neil’s knife-wielding wrist in a crushing hold now had a kind smile curving her face into an expression of gentleness that set Neil’s instincts aflame in warning. She spoke softly with confidence, “Perhaps we should give you some time to consider your decision. We all could use rest. Tomorrow we will return to the coast to retrieve our vessel and return to our homeland. You can choose to accompany us and we will happily welcome you,” the Hound shifter, who Neil remembered had been referred to as Andrew, laughed gleefully at this particular part of her spiel but she continued unperturbed, “…or you can decline and we will part ways peacefully.” she finished.

Andrew’s smile towards the woman was a cruel bastard of a thing; he turned the mocking leer at Neil, “If he were peaceful he wouldn't be of any use to us Renee.”

The woman, Renee, replied mildly, “I am certain the two are not mutually exclusive.”

Wymack nodded mildly and then pointed at Neil, “We’ll make our way to the coastal village of Ambrizhine. From there we travel northwards to where our vessel is hidden. _The Glib Loon_ is a pub in the center of that village. Meet us there at midday two days from now and we will welcome you as a member of the team.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. If I'm the Mountain with the Moon above Me, I, the Mountain, Choose the Moon to Envy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil finds himself in a bind and Renee's seeing red.
> 
> {Title of work changed/ch.2 title from 'if im' by sea oleana}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi first off, Thank You all so much for all your responses and comments and kudos and messages, im feelin the love and its helped me so much, thank u <3  
> so im back wahoo, so i changed the title  
> i want to say that im going to stray from nora's timeline, things are gonna be shifted a bit. basically the reason for this is that im lazy also i dont want this to feel like a repeat of the books somehow  
> i only read through this a few times so theres prolly some typos  
> ok happy reading

One month had passed since the day that Neil turned David Wymack down. He hadn’t bothered showing up at The Glib Loon that day in Ambrishine, experience whispered that they wouldn’t accept No as an answer.

As soon as the group had retreated, leaving Neil on his own in the forest, and he was sure they weren’t still watching him, he fled southward. In a frantic rush, Neil didn’t give himself time to consider what could have been. Joining a group like the Foxes was not an option for someone like Neil; it was a dangerous daydream with the destructive power to end Neil’s life. He didn’t need to remind himself of the promises he made to his mother; his mind replayed the metal-on-metal screech of her breath struggling against the rise of blood filling her lungs. Her words repeating endlessly as his feet continued their repetitive clamor to get away.

Neil walked for three weeks along the grey and misty, chilly rocky shore of Edelshim Bay. Deep, navy ocean swells rose and fell to his left and towering dark mountain terrain loomed off to his right. Days leaked into nights as he continued southward along the coastline, only pausing to rest for a few hours at a time every couple days. His body was accustomed to this abuse and it carried him onward without buckling. He felt, upon arriving at the edge of the bay, like an abandoned and hollowed out husk.

Sand and stone crunched underneath his dark leather boots, rows of buckles securing his trembling ankles. He wrapped the wool cloak tighter around himself as the salty brush of coarse sea air whipped and licked cold stripes along his bare face and throughout his loose brown hair. The narrow tail of land came to a small point and then tapered off into the turbulent sea. Neil knew that several hundred leagues to the south, further below the horizon, lay the Southern Isles. Countless volcanic islands and coral atolls sprinkled across the sea in a crescent shape.

Neil breathed in salty air through his nose. He counted backwards and forwards to a ten in the seven languages he was fluent in until the shaking in his arms and legs was less violent. Then he sagged and slumped to the hard, cold ground. He pulled his ankles one over the other.

From where he was settled on the loose rocks and sand, the broader and higher waves further out crashed like a tumbling chorus of bear-hide drums. The air was chilly enough this far north that a shiver rippled up his spine, the earth beneath him was moist and cold. The thought of the warmth of a tropical island eased the cold permeating his body but the ringing in his ears grew and sharpened, morphing into a pinching pain in his stomach. He pulled a stale stump of wrapped bread from his bag and chewed slow while watching the dark waves foam and lather against the grey shore. Neil was aware his weight was now plummeting at a rate to which he should have been more concerned. He was struggling to remember to eat, a bad habit that his mother had used to curb with harsh words and tight hands in his hair jerking back and forth if he failed to finish a meal or allowed himself to become famished.

There were only a few hours until sunrise. Pomegranate reds and rosebud pinks melted and swirled across the gently brightening early spring sky.

 

* * *

 

 

Renee wandered in an unfamiliar and dark place. Her legs moved, carrying her forward and further into the darkness edging at her misty vision. The ground beneath her feet softened until she could no longer feel any resistance.

She felt an unnatural calm.

Her muscles relaxed.

She breathed in and out through her nose.

Again and again.

An indiscriminate amount of time later, she became aware of a weight in the pockets on her cotton nightgown. She reached inside them and pulled out freshly cut bundles of mugwort and dream root, soft greens and delicate ivory-petaled flowers.

Low thrumming beats caught her attention; her ears twitched as the sound grew louder with each passing second. Recognition broke across her face; it was the sound of wings. Large and powerful, many-feathered wings plunging down and reaching up.

She looked around for the source of the noise but jumped in surprise as the bundles of herbs in her hands burst into flames and then, just as quickly, petered out into glowing weightless coals. She watched as the embers scattered from her hand like dust.

Heat suddenly rose upwards from beneath Renee’s dangling bare feet, billowing out her pale nightgown while a red hot glow began to grow from the fathomless emptiness suspended underneath her body. Her body swayed in the heat, slow and graceful as if she were walking beneath waves along an ocean floor. Glittering coals rose and floated serenely passed her line of sight. The reverb of muscled working wings became thunderous. Goosebumps formed and spread across her skin.

It was the smell she noticed first; the memory of a metallic taste. Red and hot, it pooled beneath her as wide as the sea, thick gargantuan waves rolled languidly beneath her dangling body. The cacophonous pounding of wings grew painful, her ear drums protested the tremendous thumping. But she could see only darkness and the crimson ocean beneath her.

Her breath caught in her throat. A desperate keen threatened to tear through. She hunched over and grasped her face with her hands, trying to block out the sound, squeezing white-knuckle hard and breathing harder through clenched teeth.

She knew the crimson blood below her was from the corpses that she had created. Volumes of gore and fluids spilled from bodies. Lives brought to their end with her will, two hands, and several sharp knives. The crashing sound of heavy feathered wings became unbearable, and then all at once, it stopped. Everything: the smell of blood, the scorching heat, the heaving vermillion sea beneath her, and those unbearably loud crashing wings; it all stopped.

Silence and darkness brushed softly over her, soothing her. She could feel clarity and lucidity reaching out.

Her breathing became steady and focused.

She pulled out the talisman that now clearly rested around her neck. The single crystal glinted a deep azure blue. It was a talisman she had prepared in advance, intuition as her guide. She fastened it tighter to her throat, the golden chain glowed faintly and fused with the skin of her neck. Her steely-grayish brown eyes slid closed and she allowed herself to drift.

 

Steady breathing was the first thing she registered. Then she became aware that she was standing ram-rod straight. 

She was in her own bedroom, the one she shared with Allison. Her wife was asleep in the large plush bed, along with Renee’s physical body. It was deep into the early hours of the morning, the light trickling in through the windows was a deep grayish-blue. Bubbling echoes trickled in and out of her hearing as if she were underwater.

Oh. The talisman worked, she thought with a sense of wonder and gratitude. Her mental agency returned in gentle waves. The more breaths she drew in and out, the more of a hold she had over her transcended form. After several minutes, she was finally able to move. Like a hazy fog, she drifted soundlessly across the large bedroom floor across layered furs and rugs. She swept through the open double screen-doors and out onto the circular veranda. Sheer lavender curtains lilted back and forth in the tall open windows along the moonlit breeze. Wispy, dark-blue clouds floated gently across the hazy predawn sky. Renee’s pastel, rainbow hair swung back and forth over her shoulders appearing to defying the pull of gravity. Her gray eyes held a gentle glow, reflecting the moonlight.

Before her in the center of the veranda, sat the intricately carved stone table that was surrounded on all sides by large plush floor cushions. Upon the table sat her personal deck of tarot cards, around which sat several different colored crystals. What drew her attention was that the cards themselves were not as she had left them. They were stacked impossibly straight in the center of the table and were facing away from Renee.

She sat down quietly in front of the cards.

The deep blue crystal talisman that had been tightly wound around and fused with her neck detached and unraveled itself until its length of chain was straight. The crystal itself grew slightly heavier around her neck and she felt a strong compulsion to sleep.

She struggled to keep her mind alert even as her eyelids grew heavier and sleep began to creep in at the edges of her senses. She waited.

Several clouds had passed beneath the moon’s glow before the crystal that hung from the chain around her neck began to hum gently and produce a faint glow. The warm light seeped outwards from the shining mineral. The glow grew stronger and brighter. It encompassed her field of vision and then she felt her body being pulled backwards. A welcoming warmth steadily grew as her sight faded and she was lulled asleep.

 

Renee felt consciousness return and her eyes painstakingly opened. Light from the arriving sun crept into her vision. She was snuggled up to her sleeping wife’s warm form underneath the blankets of their bed. Allison’s eyes were gently closed and her face bore a rare tender expression. Renee exhaled and felt muscles relax that she hadn’t know were holding.

Her thoughts went to the dream and the dream’s end. She silently crept out of bed with practiced ease. Her bare feet touched down to cool stone floor and she turned to face the entrance to the balcony. The lavender curtains fluttered airily in the soft morning air. She turned her head to peak out the bedside windows; it was early enough that there were a few sparkling stars still visible.

The veranda again drew her attention like the clatter of a dropped chime. She quietly walked across the cool marble floor and over several richly-colorful and plush woven rugs. The doubled screen doors were already ajar, to allow in the cool nighttime air. She slipped through the curtains like a ghost and entered the balcony. At once she felt the air shift and still, like she had stepped inside a glass dome. The dawn was coming closer and with it the dust floating in the air became illuminated, crystal shards suspended in the silence of the morning.

It was then that she noticed it. The deck on the table was as it had been in the dream, perfectly stacked on the center of the carved low table. However a single card had been drawn and lain upon the table on the other side, opposite from where Renee had sat last night.

The Wheel of Fortune sat in a reverse position in front of the empty seat. But the eery feeling in Renee’s stomach was soon quashed as she gazed further at the delicate water-color painting on the card. She could not help but consider that the card could also be read, for herself, as Upright.

 

* * *

 

 

The Southern Isles rose from the ocean near the planet’s equator. On the backs of ancient volcanoes in the midst of the vast, deep ocean, these numerous tropical islands created a waypoint between many nations. A crescent shape spread of vegetation-dominated islands wrapped itself in the center of the hottest part of the ocean. The volcanic birth of the islands created wide towering mountains with steaming peaks. Beneath the smoking dark tops, closer to the base of these towering mountains were vast forests of tropical trees. As the thick vegetation approached the ocean, the land leveled out for many leagues, giving way to broad sandy beaches and shallow turquoise water.

There were countless small villages on the islands and several larger port cities scattered between the cluster of isles that were filled to the brim with traders, merchants, townsfolk, and more. It was a good place to disappear.

A few weeks and several hundred leagues southward of where Neil had abandoned the lonely grey shoreline of Edelshim Bay, Neil arrived weary and numb to the port of Biti. Ceaseless sweat seeping down the bumps of his spine and soaking in to his gray, short sleeve shirt. Blazing sunlight dominated the crystal cerulean sky but thanks to his mother’s dark skin, Neil wasn’t too concerned about sun damage.

He sought out the busiest pub in town, Potbelly Pahta’s Pub, and sat down at the bar waiting to be served. The menu was entirely fresh-caught fish. Neil ate his meal in a practiced and detached manner. He let his eyes wander around him, surveying the other customers. Many people were already drunk despite the early hour and their loud gushing voices washed over Neil and teased a headache from between his pinched brow. The bartenders and kitchen staff slipped deftly between drunk and swaying, loud-braying patrons. Coins and notes were passed quickly between hands or clattering atop counters and tables.

Neil ate slower as he felt himself drift beneath the pub’s hum of anonymity. The fish and vegetables he was eating tasted like dry dirt and had the texture of vomit but he pressed on, swallowing despite his absent appetite. He couldn’t afford to continue growing weaker because he was too stupid to eat properly.

His thoughts ran endlessly inside his mind: He could stay here for several months, hopping from island to island. Or better yet, northeast. He should make his way to the Capitol City of the United Governance of Nations. Surely a ship or two were headed towards the metropolis capitol and leaving from one of the islands’ ports. There were a couple contacts in that colossal city according to what Neil remembered from when his mother and he passed through there years ago. He wondered if they were still alive. He wasn’t sure they would even help him without his mother’s presence. After all it had been Mary who forged the contacts in the first place. Neil was just a young boy when he had first accompanied his mother through the maze of the Governance’s capitol.

His mother had always been the decisive head choosing the safest and most clever path to keep them out from underneath his father’s gaze. Without her he felt drawn and brittle. He was so much more vulnerable without her cunning mind, without her ruthless hands, without her there to keep him moving forward.

Frenzied half-formed thoughts and vicious reprimands tangled together in a calamitous chorus and they tumbled one over another inside Neil’s head. He reached up and massaged his brow.

The roar of the pub around him, drunk patrons and musical accompaniment, gradually softened to a dull humming even as a grinding headache began blooming behind Neil’s eyes. Sweat formed on his heating skin, the crowded bar growing in temperature as more thirsty patrons entered. He slid out of his wooden stool with a clatter, slapped a couple coins onto the bar counter, and rushed in search of an exit.

The alley behind Potbelly Pahta’s Pub was blessedly empty. Neil shuffled towards the side street but found that his legs were growing numb and as he walked his stride slowed and he reached out his hands and turned them palm up. He looked down at the lines in the skin of his palms.

He had only seconds to panic as his instincts and experience screamed out poison.

Then the ground slid out from underneath his unsteady feet. Dirt and stone slammed into his cheek and brow with a thick crunch. His vision grew hazy and darkened. His body’s meager struggling stilled.

 

* * *

 

 

He could feel heat. Wherever he was it was sweltering, almost unbearably so. Then came the sounds, soft rustling of fabric, the back and forth brushing of lungs breathing in and out, and hushed tones of someone speaking. The uncomfortable tide of dread rose higher within Neil’s chest.

Rough fabric was covering Neil’s face and blocking his sight. Dim light leaked in through the course weave of the cloth.

When he tried moving his body he realized that he was shackled, lying flat on his back and wearing only his underpants and the thin gray linen shirt from earlier. His mind jumped to the contents of his now-absent bag: his mother’s stones, her tobacco bag, several forged family registries all with different names, bank notes for seventeen different countries, and encoded lists of contacts. He could feel chilly sweat bead up on his bare skin and evaporate under the immense heat in the air.

The shock of his lost bag and his exposed skin and scars crushed him under a rush of bitter helplessness. Neil took a long groggy minute to appreciate that he still had on his linen shirt and underpants. The shirt covered most of the more telling scarification and his tattoos that could give rise to suspicion.

His fear that stewed below the surface began to roil and break through the practiced calm over his mind. He could see his mother’s livid expression in the weave of the burlap over his face. Her brows would clamp together and rise up her forehead. Her full lips would crease tight and thin, not quite a grimace. But it was the look in her eyes that Neil couldn't unsee. The foggy glass sheen of well-practiced punishment; his mother's agency melting away with the scent of paranoia; her dark brown eyes would drain to empty and stare back at him blankly; the eyes of a corpse. He tried to blink and force the memory to dissipate but he could not ignore her haunting. He heard the sharp words that spilled form her mouth. They dropped heavily across his skin like acidic vomit. His mother's discipline left behind fields of crushed-petal bruises.

The ever present background note of anxiety jumped and skidded to a high pitched wail. What was he without his mother? She had used up her life protecting him. All that effort to keep herself and her child from being found and slain. She had struggled and survived for years, but it had been wasted on Neil.

The spark-catch of a shame threatened to burn through his throat, trepidation beginning to ooze like ice water through his veins. Here he was, utterly captive. His mother was dead and decayed in the earth. He was alone.

 

With a breathy groan, he forced his sluggish limbs to move, but his muscles responded slow and weak to his prompting; his thoughts were muddied and thick. In his struggle he could feel what restraints were on him. His ankles bore thick manacles fastened above each bare foot, his wrists were similarly secured, and a heavy chain ran between each set of shackles. A last heavy band surrounded his neck. The minimal effort of feeling out his restraints had made sweat begin to seep off his brow and along his neck and lower back. He tried stirring up his magic but the nebulous confusion in his mind was too strong and he felt his magic cough and sputter once before receding deeper below his skin.

In his shock and rising alarm he didn’t notice the voices until they were next to him speaking.

“…Had found that Subject 371 presented with multiple strong reactions under initial divining of blood characteristics.” The voice was soft and monotone. Neil’s breathing became shallower at the mention of divining blood. If his captors were testing—

“Oh?” A second, coarser voice inquired, “…and?” Neil felt himself stilling, the sound of papers shuffling.

“Secondary testing of blood divinity confirmed this find. We then tested for primary affinity and…” The softer of the two voices trailed off. Neil realized he was holding his breath. The person cleared their throat and continued on in a slightly astonished tone, “…and we determined and thrice confirmed the two affinities to be Basilisk and Varengan.”

A thick beat of silence and Neil could taste the sour bile on his dry tongue.

A jarring celebratory laugh rang out. “A rare breed!”

Footsteps and shuffling, then the cloth was pulled roughly from Neil’s head, some brown hairs getting yanked out with it. His eyes clenched shut at the sudden light and he tried to shy away but the restraints are heavy and his body was weak. The murkiness in his mind made his thoughts slow, he couldn’t tell what they had administered but it had rendered him helpless.

A middle aged man with light brown hair, gray eyes, and a sharp jaw studied Neil’s face and form with rapt attention. He had stubble on his chin and carried a sheathed short sword and a leather satchel along his sides.

Neil tried to force harsh words, demands, or insults out of his mouth but found the effort caused him to choke and cough.

The man’s mouth tightened as if Neil had said something funny and he was trying to hold back a laugh. Leaning over, he got closer to Neil’s face. His voice came out gentle but Neil could hear the note of malevolence underneath, “That metal band on your throat is a special collar we whipped up when we were just getting this operation started in order to help keep the noise down. You have to be courteous of all your bedfellows. There are so many of you now.” He smiled like Neil was a surprise spring calf.

Neil vehemently tried to tell him to fuck off but only succeeded in produced another sputtering cough. Then he recognized the implication of what the man was saying; there were others besides Neil here, many.

He glanced around himself now, suddenly desperate to know what sort of a situation he was in. He was greeted by two rows of similar flat beds like his all with different people strapped to them. They were all mostly still with weary expression or appeared to be unconscious. More than half of the people here had bloodproves.

The dread that had been brewing in his gut began to burn upwards into his throat. He thought he might vomit on himself. They were collecting bloodproves.

The man with the heavy gray eyes gripped Neil’s jaw with his rough and calloused hand. He swiveled Neil’s head to each side and back, examining his face.

Then the man dropped his pincer grip on Neil’s jaw and turned to the other person with him, who Neil could now see was a Polycornea bloodprove woman. She had three uneven twisting horns growing delicately out of the crown of her head. Hip length black hair dangled in sturdy curls ensconcing the indicatory Polycornea column crown.

The original Polycornea Beast had the appearance of a Unicorn but instead of a single towering horn, the original Polycornea had nine. Any number of spears from one to nine could form on a bloodproven descendant.

That explained the magical dousing effect of the cuffs holding Neil’s limbs and neck: the more powerful Polycornea beast descendants often possessed magical constraining abilities. This specific magical talent could be manipulated at will when trained, or the magic-restraining property could be found latent in a Polycornea’s hair and it’s properties extracted, catalyzed, and culled by modern alchemical processes.

The man standing above Neil turned to his companion and spoke, “Maris, finish the intake process and relocate Subject 371 to the eleventh alcove. I want you to begin immediately.”

The woman, Maris, nodded with a quiet, “Yes, Arian.” She gripped the carted table Neil was atop—

“Oh and Maris!” The man called, “Be sure to re-administer the sedative at an appropriate level according to the subject’s blood potency.”

“Yes, Arian.” came an identical quiet reply and then she began wheeling Neil away. From the wide and open room, they traveled into a poorly lit tunnel. Neil could feel from the shift of his body that they were moving downwards at an incline. He wondered how far into the earth they would take him.

 

Maris took Neil deep beneath the ground. She locked him behind iron bars of an ancient cell. The walls were dark but dry due to the intense heat. The only light came from intermittent torches lining the hallway outside the cell’s metal barred doors. He was transferred onto a hard flat bench and the manacles on his wrists, ankles, and neck were all chained down and secured. Maris then set three empty glass bottles beside the bench on the floor besides Neil. She produced a small blade from her leather belt. It wasn’t a fighting blade, it was a scalpel. Neil had only a half second to brace himself before she slid the knife across the delicate skin of his forearm. The cut was clean and deep, red bubbles of blood pearling up through the slice.

He watched as she held her palm over the incision and began twisting her fingers in a coaxing manner. The blood began to ooze upwards from the wound and towards her twisting hands. She guided it gently into the glass containers beside the make shift bed. By the time she was finished Neil was barely conscious, his eyes glassy and half-lidded. His body felt too heavy, like he might break through the bench and sink beneath the floor.

She cleaned and bandaged the wound in two deft motions and then from her belt she procured a long and narrow corked vial that was filled with deep purple and black swirling liquid. Neil guessed that must be the sedative—most were dark in color—and he balked. Or he tried to; his body only managed to jerk backwards several inches.

The chains rattled and echoed off the empty stone walls of the cell around them.

Maris jumped back as soon as Neil had, and a look of fear flickered across her face so fast Neil wasn’t sure he hadn't projected the expression. He found himself meeting Maris’s wide eyes and mirroring the surprise there. It’d been a while since Neil had experienced the instinctual fear that others had for strong Basilisk descendants.

Maris collected herself in the second it took her to pinch Neil’s mouth open with a thumb and pour the purple bitter ooze down his pliant throat. He tried to struggle and cough but Maris had blocked off Neil’s nostrils. He felt his vision start to blacken at the edges and then, against his best effort, he swallowed.

His eyes rolled back into his skull. He tilted and kept falling lower and deeper. A bottomless well had cracked open the stone floor beneath Neil’s cell. He could feel the fugue approaching like one feels the air pressure dropping before a storm arrives.

 

* * *

 

 

“Breakfast is ready, Ali. I think Nicky made those yummy pot-cakes again.” Renee called softly from further inside the bedroom, she was getting dressed behind the delicately carved screen that was more decorative than functional. She glided out from around the three panel screen wearing a light blue short sleeved linen tunic and her favorite dark grey high waisted riding pants. They held numerous hidden pockets and were made of thick and sturdy fabric.

Allison was dressed impressively as always. She was wearing a light peach silken tunic with black tights along with a substantial pair of boots. Made of thick black hide; they laced up above her knees and offered sturdy protection as well as a sharp and imposing look. Her iridescent blonde hair cascaded in graceful waves over a single shoulder. She was a descendant of the Leviathan, the Beast of the sea, and her bloodprove was exceptionally beautiful. Indigo and rose colored scales covered different points of her body including her sharp fingertips, elongated ears, and down her spine. Crown-like protrusions bracketed her ears on either side of her face; they shimmered like rosy-white pearls. There were a smattering of intricate small scales that curved down from her temples and came to points along her cheekbones. They caught the light effortlessly and complimented the magenta lip balm that Renee had crafted and gifted to Allison on her last birthday.

“Mmm.” Allison affirmed as she watched her wife attach a glinting silver chain to her neck. She huffed once, loudly. “Was it that dream again then, last night?”

Renee stilled and then turned to Allison, “Yes. I am certain of it now.”

Renee closed her eyes briefly, the Wheel of Fortune flashed through her mind. She walked over to where Allison stood studying Renee with that imperious look of hers. 

Renee breathed out slowly and her face collapsed into a soft and small smile. Allison's shoulders relaxed a hair's width. Her eyes were clear when she spoke, “I think it’s time I brought my findings to Wymack.”

 

Allison and Renee arrived early to the dining room. The flat stone walls were warmed by the morning sun leaking in through the many windows. The hall ended with an open doorway leading into a warm, orange-tiled kitchen. Nicky was flouncing around in the kitchen between steam and puffs of flour; his jovial humming lilted pleasantly above the hiss and tempting smell of sizzling food. Allison pecked Renee on her temple and then walked over to where Nicky was cooking. She had an arm slung around his shoulder and was stealing bits of pot-cake batter with her fingertip.

Renee heard Nicky’s indignant squawk and then the start of a conversation as she left the dining room and traveled silently down the hall.

David Wymack sat behind a large and dark wooden desk that was overflowing with clutter; stacks of mismatched papers and envelopes, mugs of coffee and glasses that had once held liquor, and an ash tray begging to be emptied all sat crammed on the desk. One large tan hand was holding up his head, his brow furrowed, and the other was holding a letter that he was currently reading. Two worn out orange cushioned chairs were angled in front of the hulking desk. A spanning map sat behind his desk and stretched precariously from wall to wall. It had numerous pins and markers stuck into it.

Renee rapped her knuckles twice upon the open doorframe and Wymack answered with an affirmative grunt. He looked up as she walked into the office and sank down into one of the orange cushioned chairs.

“Any luck?” Wymack asked with a quirked eyebrow. Renee knew that her captain’s casual tone belied the shining intent in his eyes.

Renee glanced down at the desk for a second, blinking at the memory of blood, and then looked back to Wymack, “I believe that we are being led once more towards the Varengan wanderer. It seems you were correct in surmising the it was him we were meant to rescue.”

Renee paused and lifted a hand lightly to rub at her neck where the dream-crystal’s chain had fused with her skin. Wymack waited in silence. Her next words were quieter, “According to Bee and Abby there is no other real solution to fooling the Governance’s alchemists.”

Wymack let a sigh loose and set the letter he had been reading down on the desk. Renee eyed the wax seal on the envelope.

“I had a feeling we wouldn’t be done with that kid so easily.” Wymack said. He leaned back in his chair, “Any idea what sort of situation we would be waltzing in to?”

“Yes. I received a reading. My scrying spoke of trials arriving and loss of good fortune. Wherever he is right now, the young Warbler boy, or wherever he will be when we meet…I would suggest we prepare to be unprepared for what we find.”

Wymack scrubbed a hand over his face, stubble scratching against his calloused palms, “Direction?” he asked after a grumble and sigh.

Renee felt the weight of the deep blue divining stone she carried in her breast pocket, “South.” Wymack didn’t respond for a long minute, just folded his arms over his waist as he sat leaned back in his Captain’s chair. Renee noticed the look in his eyes, she thought it might be resolve. When he spoke his voice was steady. 

“This works out for us.”

Renee’s eyes widened a fraction in surprise.

He glanced down at the letter in front of him, “We’ve been given a new assignment.” An angry grimace flashed across his face for a second before returning to the usual well-meaning gruffness.

Renee glanced a second time at the letter with the intricate wax seal atop Wymack’s desk, “Captain?” she asked.

Wymack sat up and looked intently at Renee, “We’ve been ordered to reopen communication and passage to Varen Gan; capitol city of Passerine; land of the impenetrable mystical white sands.” Wymack let his hand flourish as he tacked on the last caustic remark.

Renee couldn’t help the parting of her lips in shock, “But there has been no word or passage in or out of the city in over forty years. The Governance is—” As soon as she had said it the answer came to her as clear as the resolution on Wymack’s face, and he beat her to say it.

“Everything depends on finding that Varengan kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok phew so im hoping to have the next chapter out within the next two weeks hopefully sooner but i am just a simple hoe and here is my [aftg/book blog where im most active nowadays](https://orocol.tumblr.com/)
> 
> i try to somewhat maintain my updates tab on the right side of that blog with my writing progress 
> 
> the songs nearer to the later half of [this playlist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8KNYf138QF4&list=PL4sryTWg6fK8rKNc_sjY33EdxTyta6HJ-) are what i listened to while writing this
> 
>  
> 
> [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/orocol)


	3. The Poison from the Bee Sting, The Mirrors on the Ceiling 1/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again
> 
> i changed a couple things from the first chapter- Stuart is a duke not the king, also nathan is not officially the king of his respective country anymore either, more info in the future chapters will discuss this stuff tho so dont worry about it now
> 
> listen i am so insecure but here i am posting this
> 
> also a 'rolled cigarette' is like a joint but with loose tobacco and rolling papers, i was inspired by that video of the person rolling the rose petal blunt and i couldn't just write in marlboro inc i guess, anyways, sorry if it sounds jarring
> 
> chapter title is from [untitled by sea oleana](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9M_gzHMavJs)

The heavy metal door of his cell struck against the dark stone wall and woke Neil from a delirious sleep.The air was impossibly hotter than it had been earlier. And though he could not freely move his body more than a weak shrug, sweat had seeped from his feverish skin and gathered below his prone and chained form. His skin stuck to the hot stone bench beneath him and his clothes, once clean and crisp, felt waxy from sweat and grime.

Maris was back again and with her was another aid, a young man around Neil’s age. This new aid was also a Polycornea Bloodprove but where Maris had three uneven twisting horns that grew upwards from the crown of her head, the new aid had seven. The clusters of horn were nestled within his dark black hair, the same color as Maris’ but where Maris’ hair held a thick natural curl, the new aid’s hair was limp and straight. Beneath his furrowed brow sat a pair of desolate grey eyes.

The new aid and Maris were both wearing simple robes that fluttered easily about as they each moved around the cell, preparing for the procedure. Around their waists were leather side-satchels filled with different vials of multicolored swirling elixirs, and delicate, twinkling metal tools were slid into slots along their belts. 

Neil struggled to focus on what the two were doing; he couldn’t be sure how long he had been here, nor how many times he had been dosed with the purple tranquilizing serum. He was counting and re-counting the number of horns atop each of their heads when Maris spoke.

“Subject 371 has passed the thirty day threshold. Physical and mental fortitude are highly compromised at this stage.” Maris was looking directly at Neil now. She had been afraid of him at first: he remembers her jumping back from him, but now Neil could see no fear in her eyes as they scanned over his prone form.

He considered that perhaps Maris was right not to fear him. His body was numb and unresponsive, his mind was slush. Had she said thirty days? He couldn’t possibly have been here that long. If they were selling harvested blood from Bloodproves then Neil was in danger. A Varengan/Basilisk hybrid blood elixir was sure to garner all the wrong attention that Neil and his Mother couldn’t—

Neil felt his pulse rise from a sluggish crawl; _his mother was dead_. He remembered how here eyes had gone still like a startled spring deer. He remembered how his throat had felt crushed as her body slowly grew colder. The life leeched out from her flesh by the cruel press of her wedded husband’s heavy hands. 

He was alone and he was trapped. 

His father would find him soon.

 

“You’re taking him off of tranquilizers?” The second aid’s query had dragged Neil’s attention from himself back to the cell around him.

“Subject 371 has passed the thirty day threshold.” Maris repeated in the same dismal tone. Her answer must have irritated the new aid because he just huffed and began roughly prepping Neil’s arms for the procedure.

“He is a blood Basilisk. You can’t be serious.” The new aid muttered from where he was poised over Neil, already slicing through the flesh of his arm to reach the blood beneath. Neil’s drugged eyes struggled to keep up with the deft motions of his slender hands.

“It would do you well to silence those opinions. Arian has no use for any but his own,” Maris’ words were liquid smoke, breathed out through her bared teeth. Her dark eyes struck through the aid with rare passion. Her words were not a threat, but a caution.

The aid was silent, his face slackened into a blank mask with the sudden onset sharpness of Maris’ disposition. Neil watched the display unbeknownst to the others. After all, what did it matter if a drugged prisoner overheard the petty arguments between his captors. 

“Tend to Subject 259, across the corridor. I will finish the preparations for 347.” Maris said in her usual cool tone as she turned away from the other aid and moved towards Neil.

Neil blinked and Maris and the aid were gone. For a fleeting moment, he wished fiercely to yell out and struggle in his chains—these people had made him so pitifully vulnerable with their elixirs and drugs. He kept losing time. With his instincts ineffectually brewing panicked breaths in his lungs, they clawed at his voiceless throat like rabid wolves. The poison’s muting effect still fully active, he couldn’t shout out even if he thought it would help. 

Each time Neil tried to reexamine his current situation in his tonic-addled mind he came to the same grim conclusion: there was no hope for escape.

Footsteps could be heard echoing off the warm stone walls as someone moved further down the corridor. 

A door opened and closed.

…

 

His stomach was hurting. It had been far too long since he’d last eaten. 

The table was set in the finest silverware, the plates polished, and the glassware glinted red as the liquid inside sloshed about with the jovial swing of Lola’s clawed hand. 

“Junior is almost tall enough to reach Romero’s kneecaps!” Lola exclaimed. Her pearly grin was stained red from her drink but the cut of her smile was as sharp as the blades hidden across her lethal body. Her laugh, friendly as the growl of a mountain leopard, spilled over the table like a tipped glass. It stained the tablecloth and bled towards Neil’s place-setting. He scrunched up his fingers on his fork and tried to hide his fear but Lola could smell it on him.

“Oh? What’s this? Little Junior hasn’t finished his meal?” Lola teased. The breath in Neil’s lungs left all at once and he failed to hide his minute hiss.

His mother beside him turned to stone and he fought not to look at her. 

The bone crushing stare of his father now pressed in on him from all sides. 

The small body held captive under heavy manacles in the corner of the grand dining room let out a small whimper, a cry for their mother.

His father smiled, and it hurt to look, but he knew the consequences would be worse if he didn’t. The glacial weight of Nathan’s icy eyes met with the mirrored blue of his son’s. Nathan studied him for a moment before turning to a half-hidden servant.

“Serve the boy a fresh cut, perhaps it will improve his demeanor.” Nathan waved his knife through the air along with his words, that sharp grin cutting across his face.

The servant bowed low before backing away towards the corner of the room. The huddled mass of trembling bare skin shrunk away from the servant’s approach.

It was easier to ignore the stifled yell and pleading whimpers but Neil could not deny the slick sound of sharpened metal sliding beneath skin and through sinew, nor the sick squelch of a cry cut off by the filling of a throat with fresh blood and bile.

The cut of meat lain upon Neil’s plate was raw and weeping red.

…

 

The deep green walls of the office reflected the flickering soft, warm light from the two wall-mounted candelabras and the crackling fireplace set back further behind the massive wooden desk. Rows of books and odd trinkets lined dark wooden shelves. Outside the tall windows a light but steady rain fell from the dark grey sky covering everything in a sleepy haze. Wymack brushed the numerous rolled up maps and stray scrolls of script aside at the sound of knocking and lifted himself out of the deep crook of his desk chair.

“Renee’s keeping me up to date with the results of her scrying but we won’t have an exact answer until we approach the targeted area.” Dan walked quickly into the office and turned, waiting for Wymack to come join her at his desk. Her dark brown skin glowed warmly in the reflected firelight, the brightness from her orange cloak spreading up into her cheeks that framed her excited and intent gaze. She had with her a large scroll that she laid out upon the desktop, she grabbed three odd goblets, coffee or liquor, from the desk and placed them in the corners of the scroll to keep it from unrolling. 

Wymack raised a single eyebrow, “You’ve made quite a bit of progress since we last spoke then, I take it?” 

“You could say that.” Dan gave him a satisfied grin and indicated to a point on the scroll, “Southern Isles, eastern border, volcanic activity.” 

“That brings us to just a bit over a single cycle then, thirty days.” Wymack murmured as he touched his hand to his brow and he leaned further over the scroll dan had brought—which he could now clearly see was a detailed map of the Southern Isles, an eastern-facing crescent shaped yawning mouth of volcanic isles. Purple markings had already found their way scribbled over the black script, Renee’s handwriting. Blue trails and pathways were sketched into the islands’ pass-ways, some scribbled over or crossed out; Allison’s broad and confident navigator’s directions.

…

 

Wymack now sat behind a similarly large desk and he struggled to read the script he knew had been scrawled there on the map weeks ago. The swaying motion of the galleon sailing ship had him canting from side to side. He got up from his seat behind the desk in the cluttered captain’s cabin and walked out onto the deck where the air was fresh and cool. The sun had just crested above the eastern horizon, breathing comforting pinks across the lightening morning sky.

Allison was up at the helm, her arms were holding the large wooden wheel steady, straining now and then with each shift of the ship’s massive rudder down below. Her eyes were trained on the southern horizon but Wymack could tell from the shift in her weight that much of her focus was on the currents running beneath and carrying their ship forward.

Renee was not far from Allison. Her dark hooded cloak was pulled up over her pastel hair and she was murmuring beneath her breath and shifting an indigo silk bag in her right palm. Dan had her Lieutenant’s cloak on, the warm orange fabric: the colors of their nation, was bright and impractical but she preferred it for traveling. She noticed the Captain’s emergence from the deck below and waved him over.

“Mornin’ Cap’!” she called from where she was leaning up against the banister along the edge of the quarterdeck near Allison and Renee, who were each semi-drowsily focused on their own tasks.

“Mornin’ Dan,” Wymack rolled his tight shoulders backwards and listened to the satisfying pops of his vertebrae. 

“Oi!” A far off cheery voice called. Wymack turned to the crow’s nest lookout atop the main mast and saw a figure sliding down the ladder. “Aaron says he can see smoke along the southern horizon,” Nicky said as he approached them along the deck. 

“We’ll enter the islands’ currents in the next few hours,” Allison said and then tucked a stray golden hair behind her ear, the light of the rising sun caught along her cheekbones and the shimmering rose and indigo scales of her Leviathan Bloodprove. The rest of her flaxen hair was secured in an intricate braid that ended just before her hips. Her dark brown eyes jumped from the horizon line over to Renee’s still form and back. “Babe, you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Renee said gently, breathed out a gentle sigh, and then approached Allison. She reached into a blue silken bag in her hand and withdrew a single pale white stone with a tuft of dark brown hair tied to it with a string of twine.

“Here,” Allison said, holding out her cupped hand within which she summoned a handful of sea water, it swirled in her palm like a miniature whirlpool. She held the giant wooden wheel of the ship secure in her other hand and watched carefully as Renee set the white stone with the hair into Allison’s sea water filled palm. Then she covered Allison’s hand with her own and they both let their eyes fall closed in concentration.

Wymack watched carefully from beside them with his arms crossed.

Allison’s brow grew more tense and Renee’s muttering kicked up into a soft hymn.

Suddenly the entire ship lurched sharply to the left, everyone grappled for purchase, and Allison’s eyes popped open. A second later she was wearing a victorious expression, “Got it,” she declared proudly. 

Renee plucked the stone back from Allisons now dry palm, the water having fallen out onto the deck, “Where should we expect to make port?” she asked.

“Biti.” Allison said, “We’ll ride this current all the way in.”

A low whistle came from Nicky who had stayed to watch and was now recovering from having toppled over into the railing, “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your skill, but damn it if I don’t almost lose my last meal every time you do that,” he said with a groan and a hand over his mouth.

Allison laughed before turning back to the wheel of the ship, “You’ll survive.”

“Aaron are you still up there or did you fall out of the boat?” Nicky called jokingly up to the crow’s nest where only the top of a blonde head, with a set of pointed Hound Bloodprove ears, and two glaring hazel eyes peered out from over the wooden nest.

Aaron didn’t respond to Nicky but Wymack could swear he heard a faint, “Fuck off.”

“Biti is along the north-eastern quadrant of the Isles, right?” Dan asked from where she had been eating her breakfast, an apple, along the railing of the quarterdeck.

“Yeah, it’s one of three main port cities of the Isles. Biti in the north, Sondrum to the south, and Nuind to the west.” Allison answered and then held an expectant palm out to Dan. Dan procured a second apple from somewhere on her person and tossed it to Allison who caught it in a fluid motion and started eating with one hand still on the wheel.

Renee slid the blue silk bag into a pocket on her sturdy pants and then shed her heavy grey cloak, “It is really quite warmer here than at home,” she said, “We’re all going to need to modify our armor appropriately,” she said.

“Ugh, yes,” Nicky said, “I refuse to run around one of the most beautiful clusters of tropical islands this side of the world looking like a sweaty piglet.” Nicky wiped at the beads of sweat starting to form beneath the curly wreath of his dark brown hair.

The quarterdeck was filling up with crew-mates quickly, “We’ll begin when the rest of the chuckleheads arrive.” Wymack said before walking off to presumably double-check the riggings on the main mast at the center of the main deck.

Dan looked to Renee but she wasn’t looking at any of them, she had a delicate fold-out monocular held up to her right eye and was focused on the horizon. Dark billowing clouds of ash spilled from the south where she knew the ring of mountains peaked out from the sea. The dark gray ash formed a trail in the sky, blown north by the winds, it acted as a guideline drawing them closer to their illusive target. They were steadily getting closer.

The hatch to the lower decks popped open and a tall man with tan skin and black hair emerged. He crawled like a ghoul out of the porthole doorway, green eyes still half full of sleep even though it was now well past sunrise on a working galleon seaship. He trudged towards the quarterdeck and collapsed on the steps. Allison muttered something under her breath and Dan hid a snort behind her hand.

“Good morning, Kevin,” Renee called from besides Dan. She had given up studying the smoke coming from the horizon and was now focused on her gathering crew-mates. Kevin gave a single grunt in response to her greeting and he didn’t move any further from the steps.

Another figure came out of the hatch door and Renee called out another friendly greeting, “Good morning, Andrew.”

“Oh, Renee,” Andrew said as he lifted a leaf rolled cigarette to his mouth and struck his thumb and forefinger together over the end of the stick, matching rings on his fingers sparked and coughed coals to life at the end of the packed tobacco. “How is the smoke scoping going? Feeling nostalgic, are we?”

“Watch it,” Allison said defensively from the helm, which was in the center of the quarterdeck, above the stern of the galleon. Renee pressed an appeasing hand to Allison’s shoulder and met her eyes for a moment before turning to Andrew.

She gave him a kind smile, “I’m alright,” she said as she met Andrew’s eyes.

“Hmm,” he seemed to study her face a second, “No visions of Armageddon? No bloodied fields of soldiers felled in battle or streets full of citizens slain in their sleep?” Andrew said, his pupils were blown wide despite with the bright burning sun high above. 

“The sight of volcanic smoke is a portent of destruction yes, but it can also be a promise for new growth, an opportunity, rebirth.” she quirked an eyebrow at him. 

Allison watched Renee’s profile for a few moments longer before huffing and turning back towards the bow of the ship where she caught the sight of Andrew’s identical twin brother sliding down the main mast from the crow’s nest. 

Aaron came over to stand a few feet from his brother but kept his gaze on anything but the man. Their matching Hound Bloodprove ears twitched independent of one another to hone in on odd sounds throughout the moving sailing ship. 

Andrew had on his trademark black armguards, strung together with his own ice threads. Hounds were historically ice mages from the northern pole and Andrew’s magic was a cut above the rest. But the narcotic elixir, forced down his throat by the Governance, made him sloppy and dangerous: with fewer inhibitions and unhinged emotions, the drug crashed through his mind like a bull steer in a downtown apothecary.

Aaron’s disgruntled scowl set him apart from his twin brother, who’s manic grin was not natural nor was it amiable. Where Andrew wore all black from his boots to his coat, Aaron wore neutrals and shades of blues. Both twins were stocky, but Andrew had built up his arms and shoulders through training and was a bit bulkier than his brother.

Their ship rocked back and forth as Allison led them further south carving a foamy trail through the swelling sea. The ocean water had gradually become lighter as they moved southward, the water color shifting from a dark navy to a crystalline turquoise. Mist from the sea spray caught the rising sun and reflected iridescent light upon the deck. Gulls cawed and soared parallel to the galleon, the wooden vessel creaking with its constant motion. Except for the trail of volcanic smoke in the open sky, they were completely alone on the wide ocean for as far as the naked eye could see. 

Seth and Matt were the last ones to exit the lower decks and join the group on the quarterdeck for morning meeting. Seth answered Renee’s greeting with a nod and slouched against the railing. Matt returned her greeting with his own before giving Dan a kiss on the cheek and leaning beside her.

Andrew was halfway through his cigarette when Seth spoke, “Where are we going?” Seth demanded to no one in particular.

“Wymack will go over the operation details soon.” Dan offered.

“What operation?” Said Seth scathingly, “Last I heard we were suppose to be going into the desert and now we’re heading for the islands? What the fuck is going on?”

“Dumbass,” Kevin groaned, “You think we can just walk into the desert of Passerine and march up to the Varen Gan citadel?”

Seth’s face crumpled further and he made to grab for the collar of Kevin’s shirt, “That’s what I’m asking, you—”

He didn’t finish the sentence nor the grab he had made for Kevin’s collar. Andrew had intercepted him in that moment and caught his outstretched wrist in a crushing hold.

Seth wrench his wrist from Andrew’s grip, taking a step back. Andrew laughed under his breath as smoke seeped out from his nostrils.

Kevin looked like he was going to keep talking but Wymack cut him off as he walked up the steps to the quarterdeck, “All right, settle down,” he said gruffly.

Wymack had his own rolled leaf cigarette which he finished before flicking the butt overboard into the wind, “As of this cycle, we are under contract to make contact with Varen Gan with the end goal being reopening communication and trade to and from the desert nation,” Wymack said as he spread his hands palm up.

“So why the hell are we—” Seth started.

“We need a guide into the dessert,” Wymack interrupted, “And last I checked, none of you lot have got any Warbler magic in you, no?”

The crew was quiet.

“We’ve been tracking the young Warbler man from Edelshim bay,” Dan cut in with a nod to Renee and Allison, “Renee is confident that we will make some kind of progress by pursuing him, obviously the goal is to recruit him but first we have to find him.”

Wymack nodded, “Exactly. The kid left behind some hair in Edelshim which we recovered and Renee has been able to form a tracking stone with it. We need to make contact and question him about the city’s affairs. Gaining his full cooperation would be the best case scenario,” Wymack said.

“That order from the Governance is bullshit!” Nicky said, “They know its impossible, that’s why they assigned it to us.”

“Yeah so we’re gonna snatch up that little Warbler, reopen the secret city, and shove it in the arrogant bastard’s face when he has to reward us for our achievements.” Allison said with a proud sneer.

“That arrogant bastard is Tetsuji Moriyama and he is a sitting Executive of the United Governance of Nations,” Wymack reminded them, “We have to be smart.”

“When have we ever been anything but?” Nicky feigned offense while Aaron didn’t hide his disparaging snort.

Wymack rubbed a broad hand over his face and released a long-suffering sigh, “Let’s not give the Moriyamas any more reason to try and screw with us this season, yeah?”

This time it was Andrew who cut in to speak but he wasn’t talking to the group, he was bent over Kevin’s seated form with a firm grip on his shoulder, and he was speaking adamantly into Kevin’s ear.

“You remember the deal we made, no? Do not tell me you have forgotten, Day.” 

Kevin was shaking, his back muscles jumping under the fabric of his shirt as if in pain. One season ago, Kevin had beautiful and grand wings growing out of his back. They were broad and bronze with shimmering gold; a Griffin Bloodprove’s wings. Except a little over six cycles ago, Riko Moriyama had tore the wings out from Kevin’s back.

After a few tense moments of Andrew murmuring resolutely in Kevin’s ear to quell his trembling, Kevin shrugged Andrew off of his shoulder and stood up, collecting himself. Andrew removed his hand and backed away to the railing to continue smoking the rest of his cigarette. He used his pointer finger to tap the stick, dislodging a clump of ash, it fell away into the swelling wind and waves.

The rest of the crew, familiar with Kevin’s psychoses, stayed quiet.

Wymack watched Kevin with a considering eye before he drew the attention back to himself and the meeting, “So that is the gist of our operation; get intel on Varen Gan through the Warbler, recruit him, then head to the desert with him as our guide.”

“Oh, is that all?” Seth grumbled.

Wymack sent him a look before continuing, “We’re less then a full day from land. I want all hands on deck, Dan’s in charge and Allison’s at helm. Everyone needs to prepare for high temperature light-weight battle-ready gear by nightfall. Stagger your naps. Move out!” he said with a clap of his hands. 

The crew gave half-hearted aye-aye’s or salutes and shuffled off to head to their different assignments or posts. The large wooden galleon sped quickly along the ocean’s surface leaving a trail of foam and sea spray.

 

After lunch, Wymack was standing in front of the large drawing table in the center of the Captain’s Quarters that had become a makeshift office. The room was in the highest cabin at the stern of the ship with windows lining the back and sides. The table was overflowing with notes, scrolls, and maps. The orange upholstery of the chairs in the room matched the curtains alongside the windows making the room feel even hotter in the tropical climate. Wymack had the windows tilted open to let in the breeze and cool mist.

Dan and Kevin walked in soon after and joined him at the table where they quietly discussed the details of the operation, like which members would be assigned to what groups to perform which task and where would they replenish their supplies.

They were discussing which weapons they would each be carrying when Renee knocked on the door and entered, “Could I have a moment of your time?” she asked the room.

“Of course, sit down, do you want these two to leave, or?” Wymack asked and pointed at Dan and Kevin, the latter made a displeased face at the thought of being kicked out.

“I think its better if you both heard this, stay,” Renee said as she moved into the room.

“What’s wrong?” Dan asked with concern lacing her voice and her brows drawing together as Renee sat in the orange upholstered chair next to Kevin.

“Its not that there is something wrong per say, but I have been seeing an unfamiliar omen in my scrying and dreaming lately. I thought it would be better to bring this to your attention and get a fresh perspective on the matter rather than not mention it at all,” Renee said with a slight crease in her brow.

Dan was standing alongside the wall and she moved to take the seat on the other side of Renee.

“What is it that you have been seeing?” Wymack asked her.

“It’s,” Renee exhaled lightly and was about to continue when the door slammed open.

Four heads swiveled to Andrew, who turned to look at them with wide eyes, as if he were surprised to find anyone in the meeting room, “Oops, did I interrupt? It’s that twin of mine, he keeps hiding my snacks on me, you see. I have to hide them in here or he dumps them overboard, thinks the sugar is bad for my teeth!” Andrews pressed a hand to his head in a mockery of concern. His glassy hazel eyes traced over the room, the occupants, and the mess on the table in quick succession. In his left hand he held a burlap sack full of candied peach slices. He threw a couple more into his mouth and continued shamelessly and loudly chewing.

Wymack huffed and was about to say something to the interloper when Renee spoke, “Actually, this is perfect,” she said almost privately, “Andrew you should hear this as well.” 

“Mmm?” Andrew hummed around a mouthful of candied peach, but despite his tone he moved into the room and plopped down in the upholstered chair on Kevin’s other side, shoving even more sugary dried fruit slices into his mouth.

Renee continued as soon as he was settled, “In my dreams I see a symbol, a great dragon swallowing its tail. I have had this same dream come to me every night this past week so I know that it is significant, I just don’t know why or how.”

“Can you draw it?” Kevin asked, suddenly interested. Andrew stopped chewing and watched Kevin as he passed a scrap paper and pencil to Renee who grabbed the offered materials and bent over the table to sketch the vision in her dream.

When she was finished, she held the sketch up for Kevin to see. His expression paled, the color draining from his tan skin, and his brow furrowed in confusion, “This is…” he said hesitantly, “…the Ouroboros.”

“The what now?” Wymack asked, the perplexed crease in his brow matched Kevin’s.

“Ouroboros…” Renee turned the word over her tongue, testing her memory. After a moment her grey eyes snapped open where they caught the edge of Andrew’s hazel gaze, “I remember now where I’ve seen it,” she said a little solemnly, “Some of the ancient texts used by the Kazimierza Sanguis Sects featured this sigil in their records. They are one of many obscure sects of religious blood cults.”

“Blood cults?” Dan asked with some urgency, “I thought they were mostly extinct.”

“Groups like them are incredibly rare since The Letting,” Renee offered, “blood cults steal the flesh, or blood, of another, take it into themselves, and gain the vitality of the blood or flesh that has been ingested. But this magic came from the Basilisk Beast, what we know of the legend is limited, but regeneration is a magical aspect of Basilisk Beast decedents. Although, most do not practice or are more likely unaware of the magic that cannibalizing will bring them.”

“The historical texts that I can remember tell of a great dragon, the Basilisk Beast, devouring it’s children in order to gain more power. The legend is recorded in Ancient Ważnaródic and there are few people left in the free world that can translate to and from that language.”

“There are rituals used to make use of this aspect in a person with a non-Basilisk bloodlines but they are more closely related to curses. It is quite a gruesome practice. What that means is, if you don’t have Basilisk magic in you, when cannibalizing magic, although gaining temporary regeneration and vitality, the custom eventually starts to deteriorate the practitioner until the body decays,” Renee finished.

The room was quiet for a pregnant moment as the group absorbed the information.

Then Andrew nudged his foot into Kevin’s side, “Care to share with the group, Day?” he said as he popped more candied peaches into his mouth.

Kevin had been eerily still while Renee explained the history of the Kazimierza Sanguis Sect and the related blood cults. He’d been eyeing the sketch of the circular dragon devouring its own tail and looked to be holding back a rush of nausea.

Wymack’s surly face shaded with concern, “Kevin?” he asked.

Kevin looked up at Wymack. He cleared his throat after a moment while refocusing on the drawing Renee had sketched, “I’ve seen this once before,” Kevin said, “When I was younger.”

Andrew’s sharp hazel eyes caught the movement of Wymack’s shoulders tightening up just the smallest fraction. A giggle leaked out of his candy filled mouth and spilled from his manic grin like a cobra’s warning hiss.

“We were visited by a family of dignitaries from Ważnaród, they were apparently acquaintances of Lord Kengo’s. Ri—“ Kevin’s lips trembled with the name of his former best friend, brother, and captain before he continued on, “Riko and I were training, it was summertime. The family brought a son with them who was only a year or two younger than us. We played together, and then we trained with swords together as well. He was very proficient, Riko wanted him to train with us.”

“They stayed for a few months and during that time I caught a glimpse of a scar on the young boy’s shoulder during one of our many skirmishes. The skin looked calloused over with black ink, like a curse mark applied with burning,” Kevin paused and rubbed his own shoulder in phantom pain, “the mark was of that sigil: the Ouroboros,” he said with a nod to the drawing.

Renee’s eyes narrowed in a rush of thoughts, “The sigil could originate from archaic Ważnaród legend, that would make sense as to why it is found on the Scrolls of Kazimierza which different groups often worship or take out of context. Those dignitaries who you met, having connections with the Moriyama main family, it is safe to surmise that they belong to the upper echelon of Ważnaród society.”

“But what would a kid from a rich Ważnaród family be doing with a cursed sigil on his shoulder?” Dan interjected, “Who would put something like that on a child?” 

The cabin was quiet, the sway of the ship was the only thing making noise from the creaking wood, to the echoed crashing of waves outside. Wymack had a look on his face they had all seen before. His dark brown eyes were cold and closed off. His voice sounded tired, “Do you know where the boy is now?”

Kevin deflated at the question just enough for Andrew to guess what he’d say next. It seemed Wymack had the same thought since his face crumpled into a practiced blankness before Kevin uttered the words, “He’s dead.”

Before the others could react, Kevin explained, “I don’t know for sure what happened, but when I asked, Riko told me, _the Butcher even kills his own kids._ ”

“I didn’t learn until later about the rumors surrounding that family. The father, Nathan Wesninski, is infamous within Ważnaród. Nathan is a powerful Basilisk Bloodprove and one of few known Shifting Brood, with dark reddish-black wings and spiraling dark horns like a dragon’s.” Kevin continued to recall what he remembered from conversations with different aids in different citadels across the globe, “They say the king is a figurehead and it is Nathan who truly rules the nation with brutality and violence. His wife and child disappeared years ago and no one has heard of them since. Most people aware of the situation believe the rumors that say he devoured them,” Kevin looked down at his hands.

“Before they left, we shared a meal among the families.” Kevin continued, his words growing more harried from the memory with each sentence, “They brought other people with them that I didn’t recognize, they were stripped of their clothes and bound. I didn’t realize until it was too late that they were meant to be the meal itself.”

“Nathan removed cuts of flesh from their bodies while they hung, hearts still beating, from the walls. He used his fire magic to cauterize the wounds so they wouldn’t bleed out too quickly, they lasted for hours, I couldn’t cover my ears to block out the sound of their cries, Riko just kept watching and I thought for sure I would vomit.” Kevin paused to swallow the lump in his throat. 

“Nathan and his son both ate the flesh of the humans brought to that meal, and from Nathaniel’s face and the reactions of the other guests, this was a regular occurrence for them.”

The air in the room was stiff and silent when Kevin finished speaking.

Andrew let out a long and low whistle while surveying Kevin’s crumpled form.

Wymack exhaled and stood, before turning and grabbing a substantial bottle of liquor from the system of shelves along the wall. He turned back around and poured the liquor into four crystal glasses and water from a canteen into a fifth glass, which he handed to Renee. 

They all downed their glasses in silence. Kevin smoothly poured himself another very full glass and drank that too. Wymack watched the trembling in Kevin’s hands recede as he drank a third glass and then set the crystal tumblr back onto the wooden table.

“We know what the symbol is now, at least.” Wymack said. 

“I can’t be sure how it will manifest in our future, that is where my concern lies most heavily,” Renee said, “I don’t know how we should even begin to prepare.”

“We have a lot more knowledge now than we did an hour ago,” Dan said, “That gives us an advantage.”

“Dan is right.” Wymack said as he batted Andrew’s hands away from the liquor bottle. Wymack put it back up in the shelf and latched the cupboard door shut before turning back to the group. “We’ll inform the crew to be on the lookout. We can’t be certain of the type of impact it will have or how it will manifest, or exactly what ‘it’ is. We can only stay informed and stay vigilant.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im on tumblr [here](https://orocol.tumblr.com/)
> 
> i have the next 2 chapters already written and will be posting them soon!


	4. The Poison from the Bee Sting, The Mirrors on the Ceiling 2/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again  
> pls check the updated tags, it gets a little gory ahead
> 
> pls dont be discouraged if i havent responded to comments, i read them and treasure them! i just have a lot of anxiety about responding and such.. i will get there eventually though.. just please know that it is so encouraging and uplifting and thank u so very much <3
> 
> enjoy!

Arian only visited Neil’s cell a couple times since he was first taken. Neil figured he couldn’t be certain though, with the way the drugs that they gave him affected his memory. He was still struggling to differentiate between lucidity, dreams, and hallucinations. After Maris’ last visit however, he had been feeling something close to clarity approaching the edge of his fog-filled consciousness. 

“You know, I always thought of myself as unnecessarily thorough,” Arian’s voice called softly from outside the barred door of Neil’s stone cell. His usual congenial timber was oddly serene, though Neil could feel the buzzing constraint beneath, “…but I must say, I’ve been made a fool.”

Neil’s eyes followed the man as he as he approached him from the doorway. He was tall enough to be Neil’s father, but his face was too different; light brown eyes, sandy hair, and a broad nose. Behind Arian, Neil saw Maris watching them carefully. Their eyes met for a moment before she looked away.

Arian crouched down low in front of Neil’s eye line where he was laid out on the warm stone bench, “Maris has removed the fetters from your hands and feet. The one on your neck ensures your magic stays nice and neat inside your blood and not out where your hands can mold it.” 

“The elixir we use is awfully vigorous; the subject remains completely prostrate, even your voice will cease to work.” Arian continued with flourish of his hands, “This however begins to wear down the body over time, and eventually the subject is no longer viable. In order to maximize productivity, I have determined through extensive trials that thirty days is the longest a subject remains viable, before the quality of product deteriorates too greatly and the subject requires disposal. We extract as much blood as we can without premature termination. After the thirty day threshold, we begin to prepare the subject for final harvest: the feet, hands, ears, tongue, eyes, teeth, hair, stomach, heart, and liver are all removed and bottled for final sale.”

“So you can imagine how surprised I was when the aid tasked with bathing you and preparing your body for harvest reported back that they had found several previously undocumented magical tattoos inscribed across your back and head.” Arian said.

Neil felt his chest tighten.

He watched the man’s form carefully but he couldn’t do much when Arian gripped his shoulder and hip and heaved him over onto his stomach. Neil’s face smashed into the stone bench while Arian tore away the shirt that covered his back and exposed the tattoos that his mother had inscribed upon his skin years ago

Arian let out an ecstatic, ‘Ah-hah!’ before Neil felt a heavy hand tracing what he knew where the outlines of the tattoos across his back, the tattoos that had kept his Bloodprove hidden for years. Arian began speaking softly again, as if to himself, “To think a Basilisk and Varengan…with such a hidden prize, I should have known to investigate more thoroughly…the design here is absolutely gorgeous, the pelt will sell for an unthinkable price.”

“Maris!” Arian called, “I’m going to perform a complete removal of Subject 371’s torsol skin, the ink-work here is impeccable, and I know an Abethian merchant who would pay a pretty coin for a piece like this in their collection,” he said as he left the cell in an excited rush. 

Neil tried to reel in the chaotic panic plaguing his corroded mind. Arian was done collecting his blood, or had he said it was impossible to retrieve more? It didn’t matter now, Arian was going to slice Neil up and sell him for parts. Neil found it hatefully poetic that he could spend his life outrunning his father, _The Butcher,_ only to be cut apart in much the same way and destroyed. His body would become amulets for the rich and afflicted and Arian would line his pockets with coin and move on. 

Neil wanted to laugh. How fitting, he thought, that the pleasure of slaying Neil be stolen from his father and for a complete stranger to step in and finish the job. At least Arian had a cold and technical way to his procedural practice; Arian didn’t want the pleasure of slicing flesh and sinew, he wanted the gold coin that came from the illegal Black Trade of magical artifacts and body parts. 

Neil could almost resign himself to being peacefully butchered by this kinder man, if it meant denying his father that which he had for so long desired.

Then Neil thought of his Mother, and like a stowaway cast overboard, his body fell submerged into a roiling sea of ice cold guilt. Frigid shame wracked his muscles in painful feverish aches. He wanted to cry but his body was too dehydrated to manage it.

The hot stone slab that served as his bed failed to warm his cool and clammy skin. He struggled to shift his body, the muscles numb and slow.

Arian returned too quickly. The man flipped Neil over again onto his back and brandished a gleaming red, six inch blade. Neil couldn’t see Arian’s face anymore, the glint on the knife had caught his eye. Arian’s voice was now coming through a long tunnel, echoing in Neil’s ears as he spoke to himself.

“First, removal of the eyes is performed before all else to preserve the shade and properties.”

Neil’s ears caught the whistle of metal blades sliding together, his head automatically swiveling around to find the source of the sound. 

But it was not Arian before him, blade aloft and preparing to rend through his flesh and joints. 

He no longer saw the hot stone cell with its dark walls and metal grated doors, nor was he laid upon the warm stone slab bench.

Neil was laid out along a humid tropical forest floor. Green ferns above his face blocked the tree top canopy from his view. It was nighttime. The flesh of felled plants and soil were soft and wet underneath his hands. Nocturnal insects chattered and ticked in the trees. Small pairs of eyes reflected back at Neil from further into the dark forest.

His ears twitched as they again picked up the bird-call whistle of blade sliding against blade. 

When Neil looked he saw his mother. She was young; her black hair trailed down her back and twisted in the air as she ducked and struck out at her attackers. The trunks and branches of knotted trees served as cover for her among the large number of assailants.

Neil was hidden far from her beneath the underbrush with a gaping wound oozing hot blood across his belly. One of the attackers had used a fire-red blade, a Krasnik blade made for killing those with regenerative magic, on Neil’s sensitive stomach. He was struggling to cast a Warbler rune of concealment into the dirt with shaky fingers when the man had discovered him. Too slow to hide, Neil had tried to run away but this only proved to distance him from his mother and cut him off from her protection.

The attacker was upon him now, and the crimson metal in his hand sung a shrill note as it slid through the air. The red of the Krasnik blade caught a stray beam of moonlight, glinting ruby in front of Neil’s wide eyes. He was reminded of the red flesh of the humans his father use to feed to him.

He crushed the neck of the attacker between his jaws and shook his head from side to side. Hot blood and flesh filled his mouth and he swallowed. Every time, the flavor surprised Neil; it was sweet like a fruit full of sugar and juices. His body greedily accepted the flesh and he felt the burnt-heat of his Basilisk magic catching fire within his gut.

The man was too shocked to properly counter attack and Neil used that second to drill his narrow fingers into the pressure points of the mans’s wrist and steal the Krasnik blade. It was heavy in his hands as he rushed the man and embedded the knife into his chest. 

Sawing through rib and cartilage, he removed the sternum of the attacker who was now motionless on the ground.

Neil sat like a gargoyle, hunched over the body beneath him as he fished out the man’s heart and cut it free with the red knife. Warm blood coated his hands and arms, it slid down his jaw and dropped from his chin. Sharp pains in his mouth preceded a rush of saliva and he struggled not to drool.

His throat ached as he looked down upon the bloody heart in his hands, “I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered.

 

His stomach was uncomfortably full and the sour stench of blood was growing thicker in the air. Neil looked down at the attacker beneath him and froze.

Beneath him was Arian. With his chest cracked open, he looked like a topless meat-pie. By his face he looked surprised, but his eyes were glassy and still. He was dead.

Neil released his vice grip on the blade in his right hand. He watch slow as the knife clattered onto the floor and settled. His vision was off, no sight on his right side. As he brought a bloody hand up to his right eye he spotted what was held in Arian’s half closed fist.

Even after being severed from his main body, Neil’s right eye remained cast under his Warbler magic: the eye in Arian’s hand was brown and matched the left eye in Neil’s head. 

He felt the pinch and ache within his skull that told him his father’s magic was already at work creating a new eye and healing the wound.

Neil studied the bite along Arian’s neck and, as if seeing Arian for the first time, he recoiled, slamming his back into the stone bench that had served as Neil’s bed for over a month. His breathing quickened as he surveyed the scene before him. The pooling crimson blood covering the stone floor reflecting the candlelight from the hall, Arian’s glistening organs and cracked ribs on display, and the glinting crimson knife on the floor. 

Neil brought his hands to his head as his chest tightened impossibly further and his bloodied fingers racked through his hair.

His body felt feverish, the regenerative magic running wild with the influx of human flesh. He could feel the strength coming back to his muscles like a dried moss being showered with rainwater to bloom again.

Neil wanted to tear out his stomach with his own hands and strangle every last drop of Arian’s blood from his guts. He wanted to yell and scream until his mother came back from the dead to find him, but he cringed at the thought of her reaction to him using his father’s magic. He still had the scars from that time seven years ago in Talat.

A glint of metal on Arian’s waist caught Neil’s eye: a heavy-looking and rusted ring of thick metal keys were strapped to Arian’s belt. Neil forced his body to move as he lurched forward with his bloody hands to retrieve the set of keys. Without hesitation he began testing them on the thick metal band around his throat. After the fourth key, he heard a click and the metal manacle fell away with a crash as it hit the stone floor.

…

 

The Foxes, along with their Captain, were hiking through the backwoods trails of Biti’s Mount Na Vura. The volcano loomed above them as they steadily climbed higher, smoke puffing out in a great stream of ash cloud. Locals had revealed in brief conversation that there were ancient temple ruins located on the northeastern side of the mountain, just past the village of Rynd. The trail they followed was old and narrow, just barely wide enough for the Foxes’ single file line. They moved silently through the forest because of their lightweight gear, the effort of hiking, and their need for stealth. 

The trees were tall with sun leaking in through the wide and green canopy above. Ferns and saplings sprouted up from the forest floor around them and various moss covered boulders of different sizes could be seen from the path. Wildlife moved around them like the ends of two similar charged magnets, the timid animals avoiding the humans. 

The crew had arrived in Biti’s port near nightfall a couple days ago. It had now been several hours since they had passed through Rynd earlier this morning. They were approaching the supposed area on Mount Na Vura where an ancient temple dwelled within the mountainside in a state of disrepair. The temperature was rising higher with each passing hour. 

Andrew clipped and unclipped the hunting knife to his waist-belt, the elastic ties on the belt had been designed specifically for Shifting Brood like him that experienced great physical change. He had received knew arm bands from Renee last Pentacles and Grain Day but hadn’t equipped them until this recent trip to the Southern Isles. The new armbands were a muted black with obsidian scale armor and they where stitched together with special fibers of the same kind as his belt.

Dan was leading the line of them and she paused and lifted a fist in the air. At that signal, the Foxes and their Captain quietly froze in their tracks. Dan, Wymack, and Renee pulled scopes from their belts or bags, Kevin, Aaron, Allison, and Andrew didn’t need such tools to see greater lengths, being Bloodproves had its advantages and greater eyesight was one of them.

A ways off ahead of them, along the steep mountainside there began rows of stone columns leading along partially hidden stone steps to a colossal set of double stone doors that sat into the mountain. They were covered with intricate carvings but hidden beneath layers of moss and dirt.

“It’s clear,” Dan declared after a moment.

The group relaxed and approached the grand stone double doors. Renee approached the wide doors with an outstretched hand. She pressed her palm along the stone of the doors and closed her eyes. 

For a moment all was still and then Renee’s eyes snapped open and she nodded to Wymack who was off to her left and watching with a careful eye.

“There are people beyond here, through a passageway, many people, I can feel countless heartbeats upon stone, but they’re weak,” Renee said.

Wymack looked to Kevin who had been watching from the other side of Renee, “Open it up for us, Day?” Wymack asked.

Kevin, being a descendant of the Griffin Beast and a Bloodprove, was a powerful wielder of earth magic. He pressed a broad palm to the door’s surface and, with a low grinding sound, the stone began to shift as if weightless and strung up by a puppeteer’s threads. Each double door receded into the mountainside with a puff of dirt and dust, revealing the entrance to a dark and wide hall.

The moment the doors disappeared and all was still again, a lower and far deeper rumbling sounded off and shook the ground with its deep vibrato. Several Foxes turned an accusing or questioning glare towards Kevin.

“That was not me.” Kevin declared as he looked down his nose at the Foxes who had questioned him, “That came from the mountain, we are on an active volcano. I don’t know what you were expecting.” he said with a dismissive wipe of his hand. 

Renee cut in gently with, “No, that…look there.” She turned and the Foxes followed her finger to where she was pointing at a fresh line of smoke just past the tree line and over the ridge of the mountainside, “A vent must have opened. We should exercise extreme caution, I fear the volcano may be affected by whatever is going on within this temple inside of it.” 

Wymack jumped in at that, “Renee’s right, we’ll need an Elemental Mage in each squad, which means,” he said as he turned to Andrew, “You and dinglebop will have to split up.”

Andrew clapped Kevin’s much taller shoulder and said, “You heard the man, dinglebop.”Andrew then swiveled to Renee and they shared a quick look, “Saint Renee here is going to watch you for a couple hours, yeah? Ok, shh, it will be alright. I will be back before you need your diaper changed.” he said as he gave Kevin’s shoulder a hard open palmed pat before turning away.

Andrew had noticed something. It was a familiar scent just barely tickling the edge of his sensitive nose. His golden brown ears perked forward as he sniffed the air. Singing birds of many glorious colors sat far above in the green canopy of leaves and joined with the insects’ low buzzing melody. The external ruins of the temple, the stone columns, cast long shadows over the forest floor. If they climbed any high in elevation, they would lose the cover of the woods to the rocky mountainside. The smells of green plants, decomposing matter, and volcanic ash filled his nose but there it was again…the featherlight scent of the Warbler from Edelshim Bay.

“I have picked up a scent.” Andrew said, tapping the tip of his nose with a finger. “It is the smelly child who stood Captain up at _The Glib Loon_ in Ambrizhine.”

Wymack looked surprised but Andrew knew it was excitement, this was the first real clue they had since Renee’s lock of hair had burnt up a few hours ago outside of Rynd. Andrew didn’t care to speculate what that could have meant in Earth Witch, but Renee had donned a concerned and silently shocked expression.

 “Which direction is the scent coming from?” Wymack asked.

Andrew pointed further northeast from where they were and said, “Half a league, tops.”

Wymack scrubbed a broad hand over his stubble and his brow furrowed as he considered that for a few seconds, “Alright, Andrew take a retrieval team to the point. You and Boyd. The rest of us will continue on through this entrance.”

Matt stepped up closer to Andrew with a hesitant smile on his friendly face. His long and heavy glaive was secured across his back, “Yo!” he called, “Let’s go get our boy.”

“That’s right,” Wymack pointed an accusing finger at Andrew, “I want to speak with him _unharmed_ this time, you hear me, you little varmint? No maiming.”

“Yeah, Yeah.” Andrew waved his hand dismissively while turning away from the group with Boyd, “No biting the other children, I understand the premise.”

They set off to track the scent further around the curve of the mountainside.

“Okay, Renee, Kevin, and Dan, you’re on point with me.” Wymack continued, “Allison, Seth, Nicky, and Aaron, you lot are on follow up. That means hostages, victims, resources, and most importantly, eliminating threats and arresting bountied persons of interest that attempt escape. Allison is lead, she knows the faces and the drill best. Now, let’s move out.” 

The Foxes split into their designated teams and filed into the dark hallway with Wymack and Dan at the lead. The tapping of their soft feet on the ancient stone floor was all that could be heard as they jogged. The hallway began with grand pillars on either side and a large central room, all of which was dark, dusty, and undisturbed for years.

Dan whispered from the front, “They must be using a different point of entrance.”

They reached another grand stone doorway at the end of the hall, this one was sealed from years of disuse as well, but when they arrived at this set of double stone doors, there was the distinct sound of voices and movement on the other side.

“Bingo.” Allison mouthed with an excited grin, Renee turned to catch her smile.

“Step aside.” Kevin said, and Allison rolled her eyes behind his head. He placed a palm on the center of the stone door, “Ready in three, two, one.”

The broad stone door melded into the side of the walls with a low grinding hiss and a slight cloud of dust. Before them opened up a large lit room that held at least fifty bedded and chained humans all unconscious or delirious. 

It was hotter in this room. They were getting closer to the core of the volcano as they followed the temple’s architecture.

The Foxes and their Captain meandered between rows of bedded and chained humans in some state of delirium. The grand hall was otherwise unattended. Wymack thought it was odd that there were so few guards until he caught the sound of voices coming from a closed off room near the end of the hall. 

Candlelight flickered underneath the door. Wymack and Dan approached with Renee and  
Kevin behind them. Allison and the rest had fanned out and were waiting for the operation to move forward so they could start clean up.

At the door, Wymack could hear muffled shouting, “…in the eighth corridor! The lower dungeons! Yes!” 

The voice was hysterical, another cut in, “Where the gods are Maris and Gabriel? Have they abandoned us? What are we supposed to do with all the…this?”

Wymack chose that moment to bust the door down with a firm kick of his heel next to the door’s handle and lock. It was a storeroom with cabinets lining each side. They were covered with scrolls, tools, and books. Along the walls were shelves of jars and vials containing fluids and body parts. There was a large drawing table in the rear of the room with extensive charts hanging above. Three people were inside and they jumped at the sudden intrusion. A burly man with a long black beard was the first to react. He charged at Wymack but Renee took out his kneecaps before he reached the Captain. 

Dan moved in next and after a series of dodging frantic punches, she threw one of her own that, along with the brass knuckles equipped to her hands, laid the enemy out flat in one swing.

The last person left conscious was a young petite man with dark brown hair and blue eyes who shrunk back from them, he turned and made to run but Kevin stepped forward to enclose his feet in stone from the floor with a single hand movement.

Wymack came around the face the young boy, he gave him a harsh look and asked, “Who is in charge of this operation?”

The boy’s face was pale and his lips trembled when he opened them. It took a few tries for him to find his voice, “He…he said he would take care of me! He said that it didn’t hurt them! I’m sorry…” the boy broke off into a sob and began to hyperventilate. 

Renee stepped up with a gentle look on her face, she spoke serenely, soft tickling words to loosen his mind, “It’s going to be alright. We will get you out of here. But I need you to tell me what you know.” Unbeknownst to the captive boy, Renee thumbed an Impetulite crystal in her pocket, a compelling stone.

The boys eyes fogged over and his facial muscles smoothed. He began to speak in a dazedly serene voice, “Arian…he said he was going to protect me. My mother, she…hated him. I was left here since then…” Renee glanced to the others who were all watching and listening. The boy continued, “Gobart said…he’s dead. Where will I go? How will I live?”

His words quickly devolved into mumbling.

“That’s all he’ll give us Captain,” Renee said.

Wymack sighed, “Kevin, secure these three with stone and lets move on…I want to get this cleared fast.”

When the hostages were secured, the group exited the store room and continued on through the corridor at the rear of the greater hall where the beds and humans were. The path became more narrow and dark, like a true tunnel, with only a few interspersed candelabras lighting the long and winding passageway. Their shadows slid and flickered across the walls along with their quick and quiet feet. The pathway began to angle downwards and they climbed lower in altitude, though it steadily continued to grow stiflingly hotter. 

A wave of sour stench hit the four crew-members, tightening postures and smoothing out facial expressions. Their paces all quickened with urgency. 

The smell of blood permeated the tunnel from this point onwards, an as they descended lower into the belly of the Mount Na Vura, the odor thickened along with the heat.

When the tunnel leveled off, the group slowed. The corridor widened here at its end and held rows of metal cells, half of which were occupied. The last cell on the left was wide open, crimson liquid pooled beneath the bars on the stone floor.

Wymack was the first to look inside. He had been expecting to find remnants of Renee’s Ouroboros vision, but this was not how he had expected it to manifest. A fresh kill, torn apart like a pack of wild coyotes. There was once a man beneath all that split blood and cracked bone.

The three Foxes entered after him.

“Oh my gods!” Dan exclaimed as she averted her eyes and clapped a hand over her mouth.

Kevin’s face had blanched, “…Shit,” he muttered.

Renee hid her reaction. Her face smooth and calm, her lips silent. Wymack would have thought her unaffected if he didn’t know better. The only tell in her façade was her left hand which had risen up to unconsciously rub at the round amethyst pendant hanging from her neck.

He gave his Foxes another moment to adjust before he forged on. From his waist-belt bag he retrieved a tightly coiled scroll which, when unrolled, revealed a sketch of Arian’s face and a bounty value. Wymack held it up to the bloody face of the man below them and they all, some more reluctantly than others, leaned in to confirm the identity.

…

 

The smell of the Warbler man grew stronger as Andrew moved east through the woods, with Matt following at his heels. They jogged over uneven but soft forest soil.

“Hey, we’re losing altitude! Aren’t we supposed to be heading towards the volcano? You know, Mount Na Vura?” Matt said as he kept pace with Andrew.

“Sure thing Matt-boy. And then we can both take turns doing cannon balls into the lava pool.” Andrew came to a halt and pulled Matt dow to his eye level by grabbing his arm. Andrew was pointing with her other hand at a huddle of boulders surrounded by trees a ways off in front of them. He let go of Matt, who had on a somewhat nervous smile, and tapped his nose, “Ye Old Stinker says there is a rabbit hole.”

Matt’s brow raised with understanding, “A secret tunnel?” His smile was less nervous now.

They approached the collection of mossy boulders. In between two larger ones, sure enough there was a dark tunnel that seemed to go on forever into the mountain. The opening was wide but low, Matt would have to duck, but they were not going into the tunnel. Andrew had a feeling something or someone had already come out of said tunnel. His feeling was due mostly in part to the fresh splotches of blood along the side of the opening. That, and the scent turned towards the sea.

They were running now, Andrew following the scent and Matt following Andrew. The forest had leveled out and the trees became thinner, the sound of waves sliding over sand met Andrew’s keen wolf-like ears. A few minutes more and they broke through the tree line. A wide black sand beach stretched in either direction, volcanic rock sand. 

Andrew was considering calling it quits when he realized the scent was leading them to the water, faint foot tracks still dolloped in the sand. The Warbler must have escaped by sea, Andrew surmised, by swimming or by boat it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he would have to find another way to trick the Governance into thinking he was on his elixirs.

But then Matt, who had waded into the sea a few steps jumped and shouted, “Gods, Andrew, here he is! Right here!” Matt hunched down in the ankle high tide and it was then that Andrew caught sight of a sopping unruly head of dark brownish-black hair bobbing along with the lapping tide in the shallows.

“What.” Andrew said, not really a question but Matt responded anyways.

“He’s unconscious. He must have passed out here after reaching the sea. Poor kid, he doesn’t look too good.” Matt slid his one arm underneath the Warbler boy’s shoulders and lifted his head and chest out of the shallow water, “Any later and the tide would have grown too high,” Matt said a little unsettled.

Matt hefted the Warbler from the water and carried him up onto a dry part of the beach before gently laying him out flat on the warm black sand. 

The breeze was mild and it tickled the ends of the kid’s dark dripping hair that reached past his shoulders. Andrew and Matt studied the Warbler as he breathed slowly below them. The kid—or young man, Andrew figured he was around their age, was dressed only in a dark gray linen undershirt and shorts. Any blood had since been washed away by the cleansing ocean water and Andrew could not smell any open wounds. His brown skin was paler than Andrew remembered and it looked thin and brittle like it could shatter with too heavy a blow. Most remarkably, his weight had plummeted since Edelshim Bay, uncomfortably taught shadows of bone showed beneath his thin skin and soaked clothing.

“He is half dead already.” Andrew nudged the kid’s foot while looking at his face, testing for any reaction but found nothing. The kid’s bare foot flopped clumsily to the side, “Deader than driftwood.” 

“He’s not dead yet.” Matt cut in from where he was still bent over the kid, “Oh man, Wymack’s gonna lose his shit, he’ll think you roughed him up again.”

Andrew could feel the withdrawal pulsing beneath the din of the artificial mania as the day’s close approached, the sun slowly sinking as a final count down. Boyd’s commentary was beginning to sound like the honking of an excitable sea gull. 

He would need to dose-up soon if the operation continued into the evening. 

“You are the one who will be carrying him back.” Andrew said. “I will tell Captain you smothered him to death. Maybe his heart will give out on the return hike and make it true.” 

Matt’s face crumpled and he looked down at the boy on the sand, “Don’t say that,” he said softly.

Matt gently inched his arms underneath the boy’s shoulders and knees before hoisting him upwards in one smooth motion, “Hup! Oi, wait up!” he shuffled after Andrew, who had already started walking towards the tree line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im on tumblr [here](https://orocol.tumblr.com/)


	5. The Poison from the Bee Sting, The Mirrors on the Ceiling 3/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyo, i really want to thank u for all your comments and kudos and bookmarks. I know i don't respond-i have rly bad anxiety and sometimes its difficult but i will get to it soon! thank you so much for understanding and being so supportive and encouraging in your comments. it helps me so much <3

When Andrew and Matt arrived back at the ancient temple, the sun was setting, coloring the sky in shades of magenta and red. The Foxes must have sent a message to the locals because the place was swarming with people helping the victims and uniformed magistrate officers from the nearby village of Rynd were taking several bountied persons into custody, along with aclosed wheeled-stone coffin via a slightly straight-lipped Kevin. 

The large quantity of unconscious and deathly weak patients was proving to be a challenge for logistics.

A large tent had been set up as a makeshift triage station by the healers and magistrates so that the victims could be more efficiently treated and processed. The tent was brownish-white and spanned across many of the ancient pillars just outside the entrance to the temple. The canopy of the surrounding forest rose high above the tent and light stars began to peak through the gaps between leaves.

Andrew and Matt, still carrying the sleeping Warbler boy, entered the fray and were immediately accosted by a passing healer. 

“Why isn’t this patient in intake? And he’s soaking wet!” The healer demanded while pulling a thin blue crystal wand from their chest pocket and slowly waving it across the boy’s clammy forehead, “This patient needs immediate care, you will follow me,” the healer turned back to the triage tent.

Matt looked to Andrew before shrugging and followed the healer into the triage tent. Rows and rows of beds had been set up, most already full of patients. It was bright in here with many attendants rushing around and treating patients. 

The healer led the two Foxes to an empty bed near the back of the triage tent where Matt was instructed to set the boy down. Then the healer ran their blue crystal wand over the boy’s body in a slow circle , “Patient presents with severe malnutrition, dehydration, and a high grade fever. No open wounds however blood levels are dangerously low. Administering emergency fluid and nutrition packs.” The healer seemed to be speaking more to themselves as they moved about treating the boy. They procured a large metal and glass syringe filled with swirling bright blue liquid and injected it into the boy’s arm, then pulled out an ornate silver watch from their breast pocket, pressed an index and middle finger to his pulse just below his thumb and watched the tiny metals hands of the watch tick past for several minutes.

Matt watched over the healer’s shoulder as they worked with concern in his eyes. Andrew was standing nearby in the corner of the large triage tent by the wall of heavy fabric. He had a rolled cigarette betwixt two fingers and was exhaling a thin tendril of smoke. 

Eventually the healer was satisfied that the boy was stable and left to help another patient.

Andrew’s Hound ear ticked to the side and his hazel eyes slipped to the tent’s entrance to see Wymack arriving inside the triage tent with Renee in tow. They had their heads dipped close together in discussion as they passed between patients in beds, healers, and magistrates.

The pair stopped to speak with a magistrate officer before Wymack turned, spotting Andrew and Matt in the back corner, and made his way over to them.

“What are you two doing standing around in the back corner? I thought you were on a track-and-meet with the Warbler kid.” Wymack asked as a greeting when he was near enough for them to hear. 

Wymack must have been expecting the Warbler to be standing alongside Matt and Andrew. The rows of beds with patients from the temple and now the triage tent had lent to his failure to notice the peculiar boy on the bed below.

Andrew slowly exhaled another stream of smoke before sweeping his hand in the direction of the bed in front of him, “Mission accomplished.”

Wymack’s eyes followed Andrew’s hand to the bed and widened, “What the hell happened to him?” His brow hardened as he took in the state of the boy, hands resting at the side of the bed. 

The Warbler’s hair and clothes had dried leaving the top of his head a mess of unruly dark curls. Some amount of pinkish blush had returned to his skin since the healer’s treatment.

“We found him almost drowning in the tide on the beach,” Matt said as he stepped up to the bed.

Wymack studied the young Warbler man. Much had changed since he met the boy briefly in the forests of Edelshim. He had far less muscle on his frame than he had had just a few cycles ago. Though he was unconscious, his facial expression was tight like he was bracing for something unpleasant. 

Wymack sighed and rubbed a hand on the back of his neck before resting it on the pommel of his sword, “Looks like he was held as a prisoner here for a while,” he said, “How did he escape?”

Matt glanced to Andrew to see if he would answer and when he didn’t Matt said, “There was a tunnel that let out lower down the mountain, we followed the scent to the beach and thats where we found him, just floating in the shallows like a sunbather. If we had been another ten minutes, the tide would have taken him.”

“He’s damn lucky,” Wymack murmured.

Renee arrived and when she recognized the Warbler her eyes tightened, “It is a good thing you got to him when you did. He must have been too weak to maintain consciousness any longer.” She turned to Wymack, “The citizens say that Mount Na Vura’s activity is rising and that they’re clearing out, transporting everyone and everything back to Rynd. They say we should be out by dawn.”

“They’re moving all these people tonight?” Wymack exclaimed in surprised as he turned to Renee.

She nodded before continuing, “I can feel it, too,” her voice was steady, “This mountain has already awoken, we’re on the clock now.”

Wymack considered her words carefully for a moment while rubbing a hand along his chin and jaw, “Alright, that’s settled then. We’re moving out with the townsfolk. I want everybody helping out wherever possible. It’s a three hour hike back to Rynd and we’ll be doing that with weight on our backs. Matt go round up the rest of the crew and fill ‘em in.

“What about him?” Matt asked.

“Abby and Bee won’t be here until the ferry arrives in Biti, that could be tomorrow or three days from now. We’ll keep him with us and care for him until he wakes. ”

…

 

There were voices; that was his first whole and solid thought. 

Then, he realized he could feel again. 

He could feel the warmth of his heart as it beat stronger with the passing of time. He could feel the brush of rough fabric beneath his no longer numb nor immobile fingers. He could feel the hum of anxiety beneath his foggy consciousness, it festered as it always had in the well of his crooked chest.

The smell of rolled tobacco filled his nose and he remembered his mother’s hand covering his as they walked through the open air market of Varen Gan, the sunlight bright and comforting.

When he opened his eyes he saw not the dark and hot cell nor the metal bars blocking his escape, he saw faces. Four faces looking back at him, a fold out of mirrored surprise on all panels. 

“Woah. Did he always have eyes like that?” The tallest one with the glaive said. 

Neil could not recognize the speaker but the other three had faces that tugged at his sludge memory, recognition on the tip of his mind.

Foxes. 

Edelshim. 

The Guilded Hissop and the dead men.

“What are you all doing here?” He demanded, his voice raw, like grating stone. He wasn’t even sure where _here_ was.

Captain David Wymack pulled his surprised expression together, “I should ask you the same thing, kid. You look like crap.” 

He tried to sit up but the woman with the colorful hair and scarred knuckles made a placating gesture with her palms in front of his chest, “You shouldn’t move in your current condition.”

He slumped back down with a scowl, not wanting to be touched, and unsure if he could indeed sit fully upright. His body felt too heavy, like he had slept for weeks and his muscles had turned to stone.

The smell of smoked tobacco came again, and he spotted the source: the Hound of Shifting Brood that had bitten him in Edelshim across the shoulder was standing at the foot of his bed smoking a rolled-leaf cigarette and watching with a heavy hazel gaze.

“You got a name? Or am I suppose to keep referring to you as, ‘kid’?” Wymack asked as he sat down on the empty gurney bed beside them.

Neil’s mouth opened to reply but nothing came out. 

A sudden and sharp pain behind his right eye had him hissing in surprise, leaning forward and bringing a hand up to rub at his pulsing eye socket. 

His eye. 

His eye had been removed by Arian. 

Arian.

He remembered. The avalanche ache of it was like a arrow shot through his chest. The nausea hit him next and he barely made it in time to lean over the side of the bed, splattering blood and bile on the floor by the woman’s shoes. It was no comfort to know the blood was not his own.

He thought he heard someone speaking urgently but his ears were ringing too loud to hear anything above the high pitch hum of panic and the galloping beat of his frantic heart. 

Then he could hear his mother’s voice, screaming at him in Ancient Varengan; the time in the Ton Pru forest in Talat, she hadn’t recognized him then, after he’d eaten the assailant his mother had beaten him unconscious. He had woken a week later with a healing broken jaw. 

He rubbed his hands over his ears as he tried to block out the thumping beat of her hands pushing through the delicate bones of his nose, eyes, and jaw.

In rubbing his ears he could feel how bare his neck was, the cool evening air pressing against his heated skin. He looked down and realized why: he was wearing nothing but his undergarments. Thin and dark gray, the shirt and shorts barely covered the scarring and sigils on his main torso and shoulders. He cringed at the thought of how exposed he’d been before these strangers the entire time. 

Which brought to his attention the lack of his possessions; his bag with his mother’s stones, her tobacco silks, his forged family registries, all seventeen of his weapons, and his entire savings. All of it was gone.

He sat up in the bed, the movement twinging painfully in his weak stomach, and looked around.

“I have to go back,” he said.

“What?” That was Wymack. He looked angry, but mostly confused. The rest of the Foxes were huddled even closer to Neil’s bed.

“My things. I need to get my things. My bag.” he choked out. 

Before they could stop him he swiveled and slid off the bed but when his feet hit the floor instead of standing, his legs collapsed beneath him and he crashed to the ground in a painful heap.

The ground shook beneath him when he fell. He thought he had imagined it, thought the pain had cracked his still fumbling mind, but the Foxes reacted as well.

“Matt,” Wymack said urgently, “Bring me Kevin. Now!”

“Yes, Cap’!” The tall one, Matt, said before running out of the tent.

A sudden and foreboding grumbling sound filled the air. The ground vibrated again. People were shouting now, and outside there was a loud crash and someone screamed.

The woman, who had knelt down to help Neil when he fell, had been distracted by the chaos. She was speaking with her Captain. Neil turned away from them, using his arms to pull himself up and away. 

The tent was now a frantic madhouse as people rushed around to transport the patients and gather any necessary materials. 

The earth trembled again with a loud groan and Neil fell sideways onto a vacated bed, his muscles weak from lack of use. He clenched his teeth and refused to yell out in frustration; his legs were already trembling from the effort he had expelled to get this far. He had to make it into the temple before the mountain erupted. He had to recover his bag. He would be helpless without it.

“At a time like this, where is it that you could be running off to?” 

Neil swiveled his head around to see that the Hound had followed him. Tall tawny Bloodprove wolf-like ears were fully forward and sharp golden eyes where trained decidedly upon Neil. His smoking cigarette hung from his loose grin. 

Residual anger from Edelshim coalesced with Neil’s already high pitched temper.

“Stop fucking following me!” Neil spat as he shifted himself around, and tried to push himself upright.

Another tremor racked the ground. Neil felt it inside his skull, buzzing in his teeth. He rubbed at his chest where it ached.

The Hound popped the cigarette out of his mouth with two nimble fingers, “What was your plan after drowning in the sea?” he asked. “I’m curious.”

“Maybe my plan was my own business. What was your plan after kidnapping me, huh? Taking tips from the criminals you arrest?” Neil accused.

The Hound took another drag of his cigarette, watching Neil with his golden-brown eyes before he exhaled. 

“Kidnap, he says,” the Hound’s grin stretched further across his face and set Neil’s instincts on high alert, “You are welcome to leave, if you think you can manage it,” he laughed under his breath, “Oh, but you should know, anything inside the temple has been lost. The molten rock has already reached the exits.”

The Hound’s words had Neil frozen in place. 

Gone? 

Already? 

Despair crashed over him and he struggled to maintain his half upright position on the makeshift bed. It took a too long moment for air to return to his lungs, his breathes hiccuping to catch up with the loss of his last possessions. Now he had nothing left of his mother and no future.

A fiercer tremor shook the ground along with an eerily low groaning noise. Part of the tent collapsed on the other side. 

There were still beds of unconscious patients being prepped for transport.

He heard Wymack yelling, “Kevin’s stuck in the queue transporting civilians,” he was walking towards them now, “That means its time to pull weight, Minyard.”

The Hound, Minyard, took his eyes off of Neil at length and addressed Wymack, “Captain, you ask for a miracle,” he said in a somber voice.

“Dammit, you shit bastard! Can’t you see the predicament we’re in?” Wymack threw his hands in the air out of frustration as he said this and, like a prayer, it brought forth another strong tremor and drumbeat from the mountain.

He sighed, “ _Two_ bottles of Speckled Hen,” Wymack said.

Minyard hummed while pretending to think about it. “One miracle, coming right up,” he said with a cheer Neil didn’t believe was genuine.

Judging by the scowl on Wymack’s face, neither did he.

Minyard clenched his right fist and it became encased in crystalline blue ice. The way his bicep bulged hinted at the density of the ice and Neil immediately felt the cool rush of air on his too-hot skin. It was soothing, a break from the heat of his panicked heart.

The ice in Minyard’s fist misaligned the balance of his body, he shifted and then knelt down on one knee, and with a left hand braced against his wrist, he touched his iced fist to the ground and it instantly froze. Ice crystals spread out impossibly fast from his fist’s point of contact and the entire tent had been coated by the time it took Neil to suck in a single breath. When he exhaled, he saw the condensed cloud of it suspended in front of his face.

Minyard was still working, sweat began to bead above his furrowed brow and a audible exhale broke passed his clenched teeth.

A monumental cracking sound cut through the air and Neil felt the reverb in his spine. 

Then everything was quiet, the earth’s shivering ceased. Neil looked around at the ice coated triage tent, shimmering like blue glass. 

“You bought yourself another hour, Captain,” Minyard said, still kneeling on the ground. He brought a hand up to his mouth and promptly vomited. The liquid spilled uncomfortably loud on the ice covered ground. The muscles in his back tensed with each heave.

Wymack was standing in front of Minyard now, “Andrew. How bad is it?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Two bottles of Speckled Hen bad, Cap’,” Andrew said with disingenuous candor.

Neil couldn’t believe that a single Hound’s ice could quell a tantruming volcano. He watched curiously as the quivers in Andrew’s body spread and sputtered as he apparently struggled with sudden illness. 

Neil shifted his body all the way onto the gurney and crossed his legs; his stamina was dropping and if he laid down now, he was afraid he wouldn’t get up, but standing was out of the question. Even if it weren’t for his inability to walk, the ice on the floor combined with his bare feet had left him stranded on the bed on a life boat without an oar.

Just as Andrew had stood to his feet, Kevin Day cracked through an ice encased section of the triage tent’s walls and strode inside, Neil was still unsettled at the sight of his absent wings. Kevin’s eyes immediately lighted onto Wymack and Andrew. He sped over with an imperious look on his face.

“All the wildlife and trees will die! You should have just waited for me, I—”

Wymack cut Kevin off, “The way I see it, you weren’t here,” he held up a broad hand when Kevin made to rebuttal, “I made the call.”

This seemed to mollify Kevin, if only for a second before he turned to Andrew, “Just how careless can you be,” he said.

“Careful Day, you get ornery past your bedtime,” Andrew mocked, nausea abated for now it seemed. 

For the moment, the mountain was at peace. Neil wasn’t sure how Andrew had done it, ice magic can only do so much against an active volcano; the elements were simply incompatible. To stave off an eruption would require such a quantity and potency of magic… Neil ran the calculations in his mind and came up with an impossible answer. 

That the Foxes had an ace like this hidden up their sleeve…though it seemed their Captain had to bribe the effort from him in top shelf liquors. 

“What is _that_?” Kevin’s voice brought Neil out of his thoughts. It was apparent by his tone that Kevin was speaking of Neil, but Neil wasn’t sure why he was so personally aggrieved. Even though he knew exactly how pathetic he appeared to them, Neil was starting to feel offended.

“This is what we came here for?” Kevin directed to Wymack, “He’s all jacked up!”

Wymack looked a little disappointed before his expression shifted to a dull irritation, “We came here, on Renee’s guidance, to rescue these civilians. Tracking him was a whim we decided to give a chance,” He put his hand firmly on Kevin’s shoulder and gave him a little shake, “You know as well as I do that looks can be deceiving.”

Kevin wore an irritated pout but didn’t argue further.

Neil was still hurting over the jacked up comment though, “‘All jacked up’?” he mocked, “And what am I suppose to think of you, huh? A Bloodprove with no prove is ridiculing me, the one with all my limbs intact.” 

Kevin flinched back and surprise colored his face before it morphed into furious anger, “The fuck did you just say to me?” He started for Neil with his hands rising but Wymack grabbed his shoulder again and yanked him back.

“That’s enough,” Wymack said. He breathed in and out once before continuing. When his eyes met Neil’s, there was unspoken censure there, Neil studied a spot on Wymack’s chest.

“Just leave me here, I’ll be of no help to you,” Neil said to the spot on Wymack’s chest.

“That’s where we disagree,” Wymack countered, “You see, we have a pressing mission that requires a special touch, the magic of a Warbler; we’re to reopen communication and trade with Varen Gan. We need you to guide us through the Passerine Desert to the hidden city.”

Neil couldn’t help his eyes jumping to Wymack’s from the spot on his chest, but the look on his face was sincere. 

“You’re serious,” he said, astounded.

“We have a lot riding on this mission and I intend to see it through,” Wymack said with resolve on his face.

Neil was quiet as he remembered with an ache how the city looked this time of year: the sun lower on the horizon, stretching the shadows and light into a maze of shimmering warmth, the science division leaving in a long snake-like trail for their winter exploration mission, the children of the city being gathered together for theatre exercises and instruction in the musical instruments.

He had been quiet for too long apparently, he didn’t notice the Hound getting up into his face. The smell of tobacco stung behind Neil’s eyes and he wondered how many cigarettes the Hound had rolled and prepped for this mission, it must have been dozens. 

Andrew was watching his face with an obsessive air. Neil could see that his pupils were still blown wide and he wondered why anyone would want to be that high all the time. He wondered when he slept.

“Oh, Captain, this one is no good. He is nothing but a frightened animal,” Andrew’s face tilted like a wheel as his eyes tracked whatever had caught his flakey attention.

“Shut up,” Neil snapped. He tried to push Andrew’s face out of his space with a weak arm but Andrew grabbed his wrist faster than he could see and held it away from them both with a crushing hold.

“Let go of me,” Neil growled.

Andrew laughed, too big and loud, then dropped Neil’s wrist.

Wymack tugged Andrew away from Neil by the back of his shirt. 

“You didn’t show that day in The Glib Loon, and we had considered that your answer,” Wymack said and Neil tried not hear the expectation in his voice, “But then our Earth Witch had a vision that ended up leading us to you all over again. We have a place for you here, as a Fox. A permanent position on the team. That includes housing, food, clothing, supplies, and a spending stipend as well.”

Neil could not believe that this was happening again. 

He didn’t want to let himself imagine what it’d be like, but he was tired and his mind wandered. 

The thought of fresh clothes and warm food alone had him biting his lip. After at least a full cycle of being starved, imprisoned, and heavily drugged, Neil’s body was waking up to it’s hunger, thirst, and exhaustion.

He couldn’t bring himself to turn Wymack’s offer down a second time, but he also couldn’t force a yes out of his throat. Fear of what he knew his mother would do to him if she found outbloomed in his lungs and threatened to strangle him.

He swallowed back a rush of nausea. 

His mother wouldn’t be here to see what choice he made.

“Neil,” he said at last.

“What?” Wymack asked, looking confused.

“Before…you asked me for my name. It’s Neil, Neil Josten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok phew im working on the next section but im not sure when it will be ready-but i keep my updates tab somewhat up to date with where im at with writing on the right side of my blog at [orocol](https://orocol.tumblr.com/) theres nothing on there now other than that i updated but i will try to update it this week with progress etc etc
> 
> thanks for reading!! sending you positive energy and love <3


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